Long Days Journey Into Night

LONG DAY’S JOURNEY
INTO NIGHT

By the same Author

THE EMPEROR JONES
THE MOON OF THE CARIBBEES
THE HAIRY APE
ANNA CHRISTIE
BEYOND THE HORIZON
ALL god’s GHILLUN GOT WINGS
THE GREAT GOD BROWN
" MARCO MILLIONS *
STRANGE INTERLUDE
LAZARUS LAUGHED AND DYNAMO
MOURNING BECOMES ELECTRA
DAYS WITHOUT END
AH, WILDERNESS*

THE ICEMAN COMETH
A MOON FOR THE MISBEGOTTEN
A TOUGH OF THE POET

Long Day’s
Journey into Night

by

Eugene O’Neill

Jonathan Cape

Thirty Bedford Square, London

FIRST PUBLISHED IN GREAT BRITAIN JUNE 1 956
REPRINTED I956, I958, I962

CAUTION Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that Long Day's
into Night, bemg fully protected under the copyright laws of the
United States of America, the British Empire, mcludmg the Dommion of
Canada, and all other countries of the copyright umon, is subject to a
royalty All rights, mcludmg professional, amateur, motion picture, recita-
tion, pubhc reading, radio oroadcastmg, and the nghte of translation mto
foreign languages are strictly reserved Enquiries for ail performmg rights
in this play should be addressed to Richard J Madden Play Co , Inc , at
522 Fifth Avenue, New York City, N Y

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BV BUTLER AND TANNER LTD.
FROME AND LONDOTff
BOUND BY A W* BAIN AND CO. LTD,

For Carlotta^ on our 12th Wedding Anniversary

DEAREST / give you the original script of this
play of old sorrow^ written in tears and blood, A
sadly inappropriate gift^ it would seem^for a day
celebrating happiness But you will understand I
mean it as a tribute to your love and tenderness
which gave me the faith in love that enabled me to
face my dead at last and wnte this play — write it
with deep pity and understanding and forgiveness
for all the four haunted Tyrones

These twelve years^ Beloved One^ have been a
Journey into Light — into love, Tou know my
gratitude. And my love!

GENE

Tao House
July 22, 1941

SCENES

ACT ONE

Living-room of the Tyrones’ summer home
8,30 a.m. on a day in August, 1912

ACT TWO

Scene i: The same, around 12 45
Scene 2. The same, about a half-hour later

ACT THREE

The same, around 6 30 that evening

ACT FOUR
The same, around midmght

CHARACTERS

James Tyrone

Mary Cavan Tyrone, hxs mfe
James Tyrone, Jr., their elder son
Edmund Tyrone, their younger son
Cathleen, second gtrl

ACT ONE

SCENE. Living-room of James Tyrone* s summer home on a morn-
ing in August^ 191 ^*

At rear are two double doorways with portiires. The
one at right leads into a front parlour with the formally ar-
ranged^ set appearance of a room rarely occupied. The other
opens on a dark^ windowless back parlour^ never used except
as a passage from living-room to dining-room. Against the
wall between the doorways is a small bookcase^ with a picture
of Shakespeare above it^ containing novels by Balzac^ Z^la^
Stendhal^ philosophical and sociological jjoorks by Schopen-
hauer^ Nietzsche^ Marx^ Engels^ Kropotkin^ Max Sterner^
plays by Ibsen, Shaw, Strindberg, poetry by Swinburne, Ros-
setti, Wilde, Ernest Dowson, Kipling,-etc.

In the nght wall, rear, is a screen door leading out on the
porch which extends halfway around the house. Farther for-
ward, a senes of three windows looks over the front lawn to
the harbour and the avenue that runs along the water front A
small wicker table and an ordinary oak desk are against the
wall, flanking the windows.

In the left wall, a similar senes of windows looks out on
the grounds behind the house. Beneath them is a wicker couch
with cushions, its head toward rear. Farther back is a large,
glassed-in bookcase with sets of Dumas, Victor Hugo,
Charles Lever, three sets of Shakespeare, The World* s Best
Literature in fifty large volumes, Hume* s History of Eng-
land, Thiers* History of the Consulate and Empire, Smol-
lett*s History of England, Gibbon*s Roman Empire and
'miscellaneous volumes of old plays, poetry, and several hs-
tones of Ireland. The astonishing thing about these sets is
that all the volumes have the look of hewing been read and
reread.

9

The hardwood floor is nearly covered by a rug^ inoffensive
in design and colour At centre is a round table with a green--
shaded reading lamp^ the cord plugged in one of the four
sockets in the chandelier above. Around the table within
reading-light range are four chairs^ three of them wicker arm-
chairs^ the fourth {at right front of table) a varnished oak
rocker with leather bottom.

It IS about 8.30. Sunshine comes through the windows at
nght.

As the curtain rises, the family have just finished breakfast
Mary Tyrone and her husband enter together from the back
parlour, coming from the dining-room

Mary is fifty-four, about medium height She still has a
young, graceful figure, a tnfie plump, but showing little
evidence of middle-aged waist and hips, although she is not
tightly corseted Her face is distinctly Irish in type. It must
once have been extremely pretty, and is still striking It does
not match her healthy figure but is thin and pale with the
bone structure prominent Her nose is long and straight, her
mouth wide with full, sensitive lips. She uses no rouge or
any sort of make-up Her high forehead is framed by thick,
pure white hair. Accentuated by her pallor and white hair,
her dark brown eyes appear black. They are unusually large
and beautiful, with black brows and long curling lashes.

What strikes one immediately is her extreme nervousness.
Her hands are never still. They were once beautiful hands,
with long, tapenng fingers, but rheumatism has knotted the
joints and warped the fingers, so that now they have an ugly
crippled look. One avoids looking at them, the more so be-
came one u consmus she is sensitive about their appearance
and humxhated by her inability to control the nervousness
which draws attention to them.

She is dressed simply but with a sure sense of what bedurmtu^
her. Her hair is arranged with fastidious care. Her voice is
soft cmd attractive. When she is merry, there is a touch of
Irish hit in ih

10

Her most appealing quality is the simple^ unaffected charm
of a shy convent-girl youthfulness she has never lost •— an
innate unworldly innocence.

James Tyrone is sixty-five but looks ten years younger.
About five feet eighty broad-shouldered and deep-chestedy he
seems taller and slenderer because of his beanngy which has
a soldierly quality of head upy chest outy stomach lUy shoulders
squared. His face has begun to break down but he is still
remarkably good-looking — a bigy finely shaped heady a
handsome profiky deep-set light-brown eyes. His grey hair
IS thin with a bald spot like a monk^s tonsure.

The stamp of his profession is unmistakably on him Not
that he indulges in any of the deliberate temperamental pos-
turings of the stage star He is by nature and preference a
simplCy unpretentious many whose inclinations are still close
to his humble beginnings and his Irish farmer forebears. But
the actor shows in all his unconsaous habits of speechy move-
ment and gesture These have the quality of belonging to
a studied technique His voice is remarkably finCy resonant
and flexiblcy and he takes great pnde in it.

His clotheSy assuredly y do not costume any romantic part.
He wears a threadbarey ready-madCy grey sack suit and
shineless black shoeSy a collar-less shirt with a thick white
handkerchief knotted loosely around his throat There is
nothing picturesquely careless about this get-up. It is com-
monplace shabby. He believes zn wearing his clothes to the
limit of usefulnessy is dressed now for gardemngy and doesrit
give a damn how he looks.

He has never been really sick a day in his life. He has no
nerves. There is a lot of stolidy earthy peasant in himy mixed
with streaks of sentimental melancholy and rare flashes of
intuitive sensibility.

^ Tyrones arm u around his wife^s waist as they appear
from the back parlour. Entering the living-room he gives her
a playful hug.

II

TYRONE. You’re a fine armful now, Mary, with those
twenty pounds you’ve gamed.

MARY {smiles qffecUonaUly). I’ve gotten too fat, you mean,
dear. I really ought to reduce.

TYRONE. None of that, my lady' You’re just right
We’ll have no talk of reducing. Is that why you ate so
httle breakfast'*

MARY. So httle"* I thought I ate a lot.

TYRONE You didn’t. Not as much as I’d hkc to see,
anyway.

MARY {teasinglj). Oh you' You expect everyone to eat
the enormous breakfast you do. No one else m the world
could without dying of mdigestion. {She comes forward to
stand by the right of table.)

TYRONE (following her). I hope I’m not as big a glutton
as that sounds. {With hearty satisfaction.) But thank God,
I’ve kept my appetite and I’ve the digestion of a young
man of twenty, if I am sixty-five.

MARY. You surely have, James. No one could deny that.

{She laughs and sits in Ihe wicker armchair at right rear of
table. He comes around behind her and selects a agar
from a box on the table and cuts off the end with a
little clipper. From the dimng-room Jamie’s and
Edmund’s voices are heard. Mary turns her head
that way.)

Why did the boys stay in the dining-room, I wonder?
Cathleen must be waiting to clear the table.

TYRONE {jokingly but with an undercurrent of resentment) .
a secret confab they don’t want me to hear, I suppose. I’ll
bet they’re cooking up some new scheme to touch the Old
Man.

12

{She u silent on this, keeping her head turned toward their
voices. Her hands appear on the table top, moving
restlessly. He lights his agar and sits down in the
rocker at right of table, which is his chair, and puffs
contentedly.)

There’s nothing hke the first afier-breakfast dgar, if it’s a
good one, and this new lot have the nght mellow flavour.
They’re a great bargain, too. I got them dead cheap. It
was McGuire put me on to them.

MARY {a tnfle aadly). I hope he didn’t put you on to any
new piece of property at the same time. His real -estate
bargains don’t work out so well.

TYRONE {defensively). I wouldn’t say that, Mary. After
all, he was the one who advised me to buy that place on
Chestnut Street and I made a quick turnover on it for a
fine profit.

MARY {smiles now with teasing affection). I know. The
famous one stroke of good luck. I’m sure McGuire never
dreamed — ( Then she pais his hand.) Never mind, James
I know it’s a waste of breath trymg to convmce you you’re
not a cunmng real-estate speciflator.

TYRONE {huffily). I’ve no such idea. But land is land,
and It’s safer thzin the stocks and bonds of Wall Street
swmdlers {Then placaiingly.) But let’s not argue about
busmess this early in the mommg.

(.4 pause. The boys' voices are again heard and one of
them has a fit of coughing. Mary listens worriedly.
Her fingers play nervously on the table top.)

.jMLRY. James, it’s Edmund you ought to scold for not
eating enough. He hardly touched anything except cofiee.
He needs to eat to keep up his strength. I keep telling him
that but he says he simply has no appetite. Of county

13

there’s nothing takes away your appetite hke a bad sum-
mer cold.

TYRONE. Yes, It’s only natural. So don’t let yourself
get worried —

MARY {quickly). Oh, I’m not I know he’ll be all right
in a few days if he takes care of himself. (As if she wanted
to dismiss the subject but canH ) But it does seem a shame he
should have to be sick nght now

TYRONE. Yes, It IS bad luck (He gives her a quick, warned
look ) But you mustn’t let it upset you, Mary Remember,
you’ve got to take care of yourself, too.

MARY (quickly) I’m not upset. Thete’s nothing to be
upset about. What makes you think I’m upset^

TYRONE. Why, nothmg, except you’ve seemed a bit
high-strung the past few days.

MARY (forcing a smile). I have^ Nonsense, dear It’s
your imagmation. (With sudden tenseness) You realty must
not watch me all the time, James. I mean, it makes me
self-consaous.

TYRONE (putting a hand over one of her nervously playing ones ) .
Now, now, Mary That’s your imagination. If I’ve
watched you it was to admire how fat and beautiful you
looked. (His voice is suddenly moved by deep feeling ) I can’t
tell you the deep happiness it gives me, darling, to see you
as you’ve been smce you came back to us, your dear old
self again. (He leans over and kisses her cheek impulsively —
then turning back adds with a constrained air.) So keep up the
good work, Mary.

MARY (has turned her head away). I will, dear. (She gets
up restlessly and goes to the windows at nght.) Thank heaf^s®^
the fog IS gone. (She turns back ) I do feel out of sorts this
mormng. I wasn’t able to get much sleep with that awful
foghorn gomg all night long.

14

TYRONE Yes, it’s like having a sick whale in the back
yard. It kept me awake, too.

MARY {affechonately amused). Did it? You had a strange
way of showmg your restlessness. You were snormg so
hard I couldn’t tell which was the foghorn! {She comes to
hiMy laughing, and pats las cheek pltyfidly.) Ten foghorns
couldn’t disturb you. You haven’t a nerve m you You’ve
never had.

TYRONE {hts vanity piqued— testily). Nonsense. You
always exaggerate about my snoring.

MARY. I couldn’t. If you could only hear yourself
once — ,

(A hurst of laughter comes from the dmng-room. She
turns her head, smiling.)

What’s the joke, I wonder^

TYKOtm {grumpily). It’s on me. I’ll bet that much. It’s
always on ^e Old Man.

MARY {teasingly). Yes, it’s terrible the way we all pick
on you, isn’t it^ You’re so abused' {She laughs — then with
a pleased, reluved air ) Well, no matter what the joke is
about, it’s a rehef to hear Edmund laugh. He’s been so
down in the mouth lately.

TYROitE {ignoring this — resentfully). Some joke of Jamie’s,
I’ll wager. He’s for ever making sneering fun of somebody,
that one.

MARY. Now don’t start in on poor Jamie, dear. {Without
conmcUon.) He’ll turn out all nght m the end, you wait and
see.

, JWfttONE. He’d better start soon, then. He’s nearly
thirty-four.

MARY {ignoring this). Good heavens, arc they going to

15

stay in the dining-room all day^ {She goes to the back parlour
doorway and calls.) Jamie » Edmund! Come in the hving-
room and give Cathleen a chance to clear the table.

{Edmund calls back, "'We're coming. Mama'' She goes
hack to the table )

TYRONE {grumbling). You’d find excuses for him no
matter what he did

MARY {sitting down beside him, pats his hand). Shush.

( Their sons James, Jr , and Edmund enter together from
the back parlour They are both grinning, still chucks
ling over what had caused their laughter, and as they
come forward they glance at their father and their
gnns grow broader.

Jamie, the elder, is thirty •‘three. He has his
father's broad-shouldered, deep-chested physique, is
an inch taller and weighs less, but appears shorter
and stouter because he lacks Tyrone's bearing and
graceful carnage. He also lacks his father's vitality.
The signs of premature disintegration are on him.
His face is still good-looking, despite marks of dis-
sipation, but it has never been handsome like Tyrone's,
although Jamie resembles him rather than his mother.
He has fine brown eyes, their colour midway between
his father's lighter and his mother's darker ones.
His hair u thinning and alrea^ there is indication
of a bald spot like Tyrone's His nose is unlike that
of any other member of the family, pronouncedly
aquiline. Combined with his habitual expression of
cynicism it gives his countenance a Mephistophelian
cast. But on the rare occasions when he smiles iSt^h-
out sneering, his perso^lip possesses the remnant oj
a humorous, romantic, wresponsible Irish charm —
that of the beguiling ne^ er-do-well, with a strain of

i6

the sentimentally poetic^ attractive to women and
popular with men

He IS dressed in an old sack suit^ not as shabby as
Tyrone's^ and wears a collar and tie. His fair skin
IS sunburned a reddish^ freckled tan,

Edmund is ten years younger than his brother^ a
couple of inches taller^ thin and wiry Where Jamie
takes after his father^ with little resemblance to his
mother^ Edmund looks like both his parents^ hut is
more like his mother. Her bigy dark eyes are the
dominant feature in his long^ narrow Irish face. His
mouth has the same quality of hypersensitiveness hers
possesses. His high forehead is hers accentuated^ with
dark brown hair^ sunbleached to red at the ends^
brushed straight back from it. But his nose is his
father* s^ and his face in profile recalls Tyrone* s,
Edmund* s hands are noticeably like his mother* s^ with
the same exceptionally long fingers. They even have
to a minor degree the same nervousness It is in the
quality of extreme nervous sensibility that the likeness
of Edmund to his mother is most marked
He IS plainly in bad health Much thinner than
he should be^ hxs eyes appear feverish and his cheeks
are sunken His skin^ in spite of being sunburned a
deep browny has a parched sallowness. He wears a
shirty collar and tUy no coaty old flannel trousersy
brown sneakers,)

MARY {turns smilingly to theUy in a merry tone that is a bit
forced), IVe been teasing your father about his snoring.
{To Tyrone ) I^U leave it to the boys, James. They must
have heard you. No, not you, Jamie. I couid hear you
the hall almost as bad as your father. You’re like
him. As soon as your head touches the pillow you^re off
and ten foghorns couldn’t wake you. {She st(^s abruptly^
catching Jamie* s ^es regarding her with an uneasy prohwg look.

Her smile vamskes and her manner becomes self-conscious,) Why
are you stanng, Jamie? {Her hands flutter up to her hair ) Is
my hair coming down? It’s hard for me to do it up
properly now. My eyes are getting so bad and I never can
find my glasses.

JAMEE {looks away guiltily). Your hair’s all right, Mama.
I was only thinkmg how well you look.

TYRONE {heartily) Just what I’ve been telhng her,
Jamie. She’s so fat and sassy, there’ll soon be no holding
her,

EDMUiro. Yes, you certainly look gran^. Mama.

{She IS reassured and smiles at him lovingly He winks
with a kidding gnn )

I’ll back you up about Papa’s snoring. Gosh, what a
racket!

JAMIE I heard him, too {He quotes, putting on a ham-
actor mcamer.) “The Moor, I know his trumpet.”

{His mother and brother laugh )

TYRONE {scathingly). If it takes my snoring to make you
remember Shakespeare instead of the dope sheet on the
ponies, I hope I’ll keep on with it.

MARY. Now, James! You mustn’t be so touchy,

{Jaime shrugs kis shoulders and sits down in the chair on
her right,)

EDMOND {irritably). Yes, for Pete’s sake, Papa' The first
thing after breakfast! Give it a rest, can’t you?

{He slumps down in the chair at left of table next toliis
brother. His father ignores him.)

MARY {reprovingly) . Your father wasn’t finding fault with

i8

you, Vou don’t have to always take Jamie’s part. You’d
think you were the one ten years older,

jAssss.{boredly). What’s all the fuss about? Let’s forget it.

TyRONE {contemptwusly). Yes, forget* Forget everything
and face nothing* It’s a convement philosophy if you’ve
no ambition in life except to —

MARY. James, do be qmet. (Ske puts an am around his
shoulder — coaxingly.) You must have gotten out of the
wrong side of the bed this mommg {To the boys, changing
the subject) What were you two gnnmng al^ut hke
Cheshire cats wljen you came in** What was the joke?

TYRONE {with a painful effort to be a good sport). Yes, let
us in on it, lads. I told your mother I knew damned well it
would be one on me, but never mind that, I’m used to it.

JAMIE {dryly). Don’t look at me. This is the Kid’s story.

EDMUND {gnns). I meant to tell you last night, Papa,
and forgot it. Y esterday when I went for a walk I dropped
m at the Inn —

MARY {worriedly). You shouldn’t dnnk now, Edmund.

EDMUND {ignoring ths). And who do you think I met
there, with a beautiful bun on, but Shaughnessy, the
tenant on that farm of yours,

MARY {smiling). That dreadful man! But he is fiiimy.

TYRONE {scowling). He’s not so funny when you’re his
landlord. He’s a wily Shanty Mick, that one. He could
hide behind a corkscrew. What’s he complaimng about
jsSW, Edmund — for I’m damned sure he’s complaining.
I suppose he wants his rent lowered. I let him have the
place for almost nothmg, just to keep someone on it, and
he never pays that till I threaten to evict him.

19

EDMUND. No, he didn’t beef about anything. He was so
pleased with hfe he even bought a dnnk, and that’s prac-
tically unheard of He was dehghted because he’d had a
fight with your friend, Harker, the Standard Oil mil-
honaire, and won a glonous victory.

MARY {mth amused dismay). Oh, Lord! James, you’ll
really have to do something —

TYRONE Bad luck to Shaughnessy, anyway!

JAMIE {maliciously) I’ll bet the next time you see Harker
at the Club and give him the old respectful bow, he won’t
see you.

•

EDMUND Yes. Harker will think you’re no gentleman
for harbounng a tenant who isn’t humble in the presence
of a king of America.

TYRONE. Never mind the Soaalist gabble. I don’t care
to hsten —

MARY {tactfidly). Go on with your story, Edmund.

EDMUND {^gnns at hts father provocatively). Well, you re-
member, Papa, the ice pond on Barker’s estate is right
next to the farm, and you remember Shaughnessy keeps
pigs. Well, It seems there’s a break in the fence anil the
pigs have been bathing m the milhonaire’s ice pond, and
Barker’s foreman told him he was sure Shaughnessy had
broken the fence on purpose to give his pigs a free wallow.

MARY {shocked and amused). Good heavens!

TYRONE {sourly, but unth a trace of admiraUori). I’m sure
he did, too, the duty scallywag It’s hke hirri

EDMUND. So Harker came in person to rebuke Shaugh-
nessy. {He chuckles.) A very bonehead play! If I needted
any further proof that our ruhng plutocrats, especially the
ones who inherited their boodle, are not mental giants,
that would clinrh It.

20

TYRONE {with appreaation, before he thinks). Yes, he’d be
no match for Shaughnessy. {Then he growls ) Keep your
damned anarchist remarks to yourself. I won’t have them
m my house. {But he is full of eager anUapaUon ) What
happened?

EDMUND. Harker had as much chance as I would with
Jack Johnson Shaughnessy got a few dnnks under his
belt and was waiting at the gate to welcome him. He told
me he never gave Harker a chance to open his mouth.
He began by shouting that he was no slave Standard Oil
could trample on. He was a King of Ireland, if he had his
rights, and scum was scum to him, no matter how much
money it had stolen from the poor.

MARY. Oh, Lord! {But she carCt help laughing^

EDMUND Then he accused Harker of making his fore-
man break down the fence to entice the pigs into the ice
pond m order to destroy them. The poor pigs, Shaugh-
nessy yeUed, had caught their death of cold. Many of
them were dymg of pneumonia, and several others had
been taken down with cholera from dnnkmg the poisoned
water. He told Harker he was hinng a lawyer to sue him
for damages. And he wound up by saying that he had
to put up with poison ivy, ticks, potato bugs, snakes and
skunks on his farm, but he was an honest man who drew
the hne somewhere, and he’d be damned if he’d stand for
a Standard Oil thief trespassing. So would Harker kindly
remove his dirty feet from the premises before he sicked
the dog on him. And Harker did!

{He and fame laugh.)

^jiARY {shocked but giggling). Heavens, what a terrible
tongue that man has!

TYRONE {admiringly before he thinks). The damned old
scoundrel! By God, you can’t beat him! {He laughs — then

21

stops abruptly and scowls.) The dirty blackguard' He’ll get
me m senous trouble yet. I hope you told him I’d be mad
as hell —

EDMUND. I told him you’d be tickled to death over the
great Insh victory, and so you are. Stop fakmg, Papa.

TYRONE Well, I’m not tickled to death.

MARY (teastngly). You are, too, James. You’re simply
dehghted!

TYRONE. No, Mary, a joke is a joke, but —

EDMUND I told Shaughnessy he should have reminded
Harker that a Standard Oil milhonaire ought to welcome
the flavour of hog in his ice water as an appropriate touch.

TYRONE. The devil you did! {Frowning ) Keep your
damned Socialist anarchist sentiments out of my affairs'

EDMUND Shaughnessy almost wept because he hadn’t
thought of that one, but he said he’d include it in a letter
he’s writing to Harker, along with a few other insults he’d
overlooked.

{He and Jamu laugh )

TYRONE What are you laughing at? There’s nothing
funny — A fine son you are to help that blackguard get
me into a lawsuit'

MARY. Now, James, don’t lose your temper.

TYRONE {turns on Jamu). And you’re worse than he is,
encouraging him. I suppose you’re regretting you weren’t
there to prompt Shaughnessy with a few nastier insults.
You’ve a fine talent fta- that, if for nothing else.

MARY. James' There’s no reason to scold Jamie.

{Jamu IS about to make some sneering remark to his
father, but he shrugs Jus shoulders.)

23

EDMUND {with sudden nervovs exasperation) . Oh, for God’s
sake, Papa! If you’re starting that stuff again, I’ll beat it.
{He jumps up) 1 left my book upstairs, anyway. {He goes
to the front parlour^ saying disgustedly:) God, Papa, I should
think you’d get sick of hearing yourself—

{He disappears. Tyrone looks after him angrily^

UARY. You mustn’t mind Edmund, James. Remember
he isn’t well.

{Edmund can be heard coughing as he goes upstairs.)

{She adds nervously.) A summer cold makes anyone irritable.

JAMIE {genuinely concerned). It’s not just a cold he’s got
The Kid is damned sick.

{His father gives him a sharp warning look but he doesrUt
see it )

MARY {Jums on him resentfully). Why do you say that?
Itti’justacold! Anyone can tell that* You always imagine
things!

TYRONE {with another warning glance at Jamie — easily) . All
Jamie meant was Edmund might have a touch of some-
thing else, too, which makes his cold worse.

JAMIE. Sure, Mama That’s all I meant.

TYRONE. Doctor Hardy thinks it might be a bit of
malarial fever he caught when he was in the tropics. If it
IS, quinine will soon cure it.

MARY {a look of contemptuous hostility flashes across her face).
Doctor Hardy! I wouldn’t beheve a thing he said, if he
swore on a stack of Bibles* I know what doctors are.
They’re aU alike. Anything, they don’t care what, to keep
you coming to them. {She stops shorty overcome by a fit of acute
self consciousness as she catches their ^es fixed on her. Her hands

23

jerk nervously to her hair. She forces a smile) What is
What are you looking at^ Is my hair — ^

TYRONE {puts his arm around her — with guilty heartiness,
^ving her a playful hug) There’s nothing wrong with your
hair. The healthier and fatter you get, the vainer you be-
come You’ll soon spend half the day pnmping before the
mirror.

MARY {half reassured). I really should have new glasses
My eyes are so bad now.

TYRONE {mth Irish blarney). Your eyes are beautiful, and
well you know it.

r

{He gives her a kiss. Her face lights up with a charmings
shy embarrassment Suddenly and startlingly one
sees in her face the girl she had once been^ not a ghost
of the deady but still a living part of her.)

MARY. You mustn’t be so silly, James. Right in front of
Jamie*

TYRONE Oh, he’s on to you, too. He knows this fuss
about eyes and hair is only fishing for comphments. Eh,
Jamie?

JAMIE {his face has clearedy tooy and there is an old boyish charm
in his loving smile at his mother). Yes. You can’t kid us,
Mama.

MARY {laughs and an Irish lilt comes into her voice) Go along
with both of you* {Then she speaks with a girlish gravity^
But I did truly have beautiful hair once, didn’t I, James^

TYRONE. The most beautiful in the world*

MARY. It was a rare shade of reddish brown and so
long it came down below my knees. You ought to re-
member It, too, Jamie. It wasn’t until after Edmund was
born that I had a single grey hair. Then it began to turn
white. {The girlishness fades from her face.)

24

TYRONE (quickly). And that made it prettier than ever,

MARY (again embarrassed and pleased). Wdl you listen to
your father, Jamie — after thirty-five years of mamage!
He isn’t a great actor for nothing, is he^ What’s come over
you, James^ Are you pounng coals of fire on my head for
teasmg you about snonng^ Well then, I take it all back.
It must have been only the foghorn I heard. (She laughs,
and they laugh with her Then she changes to a brisk businesslike
air.) But I can’t stay with you any longer, even to hear
comphments. I must see the cook about dmner and the
day’s marketing. (She gets up and sighs with humorous exag-
geration ) Bridget is so lazy. And so sly. She begms telhng
me about her relatives so I can’t get a word m edgeways
and scold her. Well, I might as well get it over. (She goes
to the back-parlour doorway, then turns, her face worried agcan.)
You mustn’t make Edmund work on the grounds with you,
James, remember. (Again with the strange obstinate set to her
face ) Not that he isn’t strong enough, but he’d perspire
and he might catch more cold.

(She disappears through the back parlour. Tyrone turns
on Jarrae condemningly.)

TYRONE. You’re a fine lunkhead' Haven’t you any
sense'* The one thing to avoid is saying anything that
would get her more upset over Edmund.

JAMIE (shrugging his shoulders). All right. Have it your
way. I think it’s the wrong idea to let Mama go on
kiddmg herself. It will only make the shock worse when
she has to ftice it. Anyway, you can see she’s dehberately
fooling herself with diat summer-cold talk. She knows
better,

TYRONE. Knows? Nobody knows yet.

JAMIE. Well, I do. I was with Edmund when he went
to Doc Hardy on Monday. I heard him pull that touch

25

of malaria stuff. He was stalling That isn’t what he
tTunlfs any more You know it as well as I do You talked
to him when you went uptown yesterday, didn’t you'!’

TYRONE. He couldn’t say anything for sure yet. He’s
to phone me today before Edmund goes to him.

JAMIE {slowly). He thinks it’s consumption, doesn’t he.
Papa-*

TYRONE [reluctantly). He said it might be.

JAMIE [moved, kis love for his brother coming out). Poor
kid' God damn it! [He turns on his father accusingly) It
might never have happened if you’d seqf him to a real
doctor when he first got sick,

TYRONE. What’s the matter with Hardy!* He’s always
been our doctor up here.

JAMIE. Everything’s the matter with him! Even in this
hick burg he’s rated thyrd class! He’s a cheap old quack!

TYRONE, That’s nght' Run him down' Run down
everybody' Everyone is a fake to you!

JAMIE [contemptuously). Hardy only charges a dollar.
That’s what makes you think he’s a fine doctor'

TYRONE (jtong). That’s enough' You’re not drunk now'
There’s no excuse — [He controls himself— a ht defensively.)
If you mean I can’t afford one of the fine soaety doctors
who prey on the nch summer people —

JAMIE. Can’t afford!* You’re one ofthe biggest property
owners around here.

TYRONE. That doesn’t mean I’m nch. It’s aU mort-
gaged—

JAMIE. Because you always buy more instead of paying
oflF mortgages. If Edmund was a lousy acre of land you
wanted, the sky would be the limi t!

26

TYRONE. That’s a he' And your sneers against Doctor
Hardy are hes' He doesn’t put on frills, or have an office
in a fashionable location, or drive around in an expensive
automobile. That’s what you pay for with those other
five-dollars-to-look-at-your-tongue fellows, not their skill.

jAMBE {with a scornful shrug of las shoulders). Oh, all right.
I’m a fool to argue. You can’t change the leopard’s spots.

TYRONE {mth rising anger). No, you can’t. You’ve
taught me that lesson only too well. I’ve lost all hope you
will ever change yours. You dare tell me what I can
afford'* You’ve never known the value of a dollar and
never will' Youive never saved a dollar in your hfe! At
the end of each season you’re penniless' You’ve thrown
your salary away every week on whores and whiskey!

JAMIE. My salary' Christ!

TYRONE. It’s more than you’re worth, and you couldn’t
get that if It wasn’t for me. If you weren’t my son, there
isn’t a manager in the business who would give you a
part, your reputation stinks so. As it is, I have to humble
my pnde and beg for you, saying you’ve turned over a
new leaf) although I know it’s a he!

JAMBE. I never wanted to be an actor. You forced me
on the stage.

TYRONE. That’s a lie! You made no effort to find any-
thing else to do. You left it to me to get you a job and I
have no influence except m the theatre. Forced you'
You never wanted to do anything except loaf in bar-
rooms! You’d have been content to sit back like a lazy
lunk and sponge on me for the rest of your life! After all
the money I’d wasted on your education, and all you did
was get fired m disgrace finm every college you went to!

JAMBE. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t drag up that anaent
history!

27

TYRONE. It’s not ancient history that you have to come
home every summer to hve on me.

JAMIE. I earn my board and lodgmg working on the
grounds. It saves you hmng a man.

TYRONE. Bah! You have to be driven to do even that
much' {Hts anger ebbs into a weary complaint.) I wouldn’t
give a damn if you ever displayed the shghtest sign of
gratitude. The only thanks is to have you sneer at me for
a dirty miser, sneer at my profession, sneer at every
damned thmg in the world — except yourself.

JAMIE (wryly). That’s not true. Papa. ^ You can’t hear
me talking to myself, that’s all

TYRONE (stares at km puzdedly, then quotes mechanically).
“Ingratitude, the vilest weed that grows” !

JAMIE. I could see that hue coimng' God, how many
thousand times—! (He stops, bored with their quarrel, an
shrugs hs shoulders ) All nght. Papa, I’m a bum. Any-
thing you like, so long as it stops the argument

TYRONE (mth indignant appeal now). If you’d get ambi-
tion in your head instead of foUy' You’re young yet
You could still make your mark You had the talent to
become a fine actor! You have it still. You’re my son — !

JAMIE (boredly). Let’s forget me. I’m not interested in
the subject. Neither are you.

(Tyrone gives up. Jamie goes on casually.)

What started us on this? Oh, Doc Hardy. When is he
going to call you up about Edmund?

TYRONE. Around lunch time. (He pauses — then defens-
ively.) I couldn’t have sent Edmund to a better doctor.
Hardy’s treated him whenever he was sick up here, since
he was knee-high. He knows his constitution as no other

28

doctor could. It’s not a question of my being miserly, as
you’d like to make out. {Bitterly.) And what could the
^est speaahst in America do for Edmund, after he’s
dehberately rmned his health by the mad hfe he’s led ever
since he was fired from college^ Even before that, when
he was in prep school, he began dissipating and playing
the Broadway sport to imitate you, when he’s never had
your constitution to stand it. You’re a healthy hulk hke
me — or you were at his age — but he’s always been a
bundle of nerves hke his mother. I’ve warned him for
years his body couldn’t stand it, but he wouldn’t heed me,
and now it’s too late.

JAMIE {sharply). What do you mean, too late? You talk
as if you thought —

TYRONE {guiltily explosive) Don’t be a damned fool' I
meant nothing but what’s plain to anyone' His health has
broken down and he may be an invahd for a long time.

JAMIE {stares at his father, ignoring his explanation). I know
It’s an Irish peasant idea consumption is fatal. It probably
IS when you hve in a hovel on a bog, but over here, with
modem treatment —

TYRONE. Don’t I know that' What are you gabbing
about, anyway? And keep your dirty tongue off Ireland,
with your sneers about peasants and bogs and hovels'.
{Accusingly.) The less you say about Edmund’s sickness,
the better for your consaence! You’re more responsible
than anyone!

JAMIE {stung) . That’s a he ' I won’t stand for that, Papa!

TYRONE. It’s the truth' You’ve been the worst influ-
ence for him. He grew up admiring you as a hero! A fine
example you set him! If you ever gave him advice except
in the ways of rottenness, I’ve never heard of it' You
made him old before his time, pumping him full of 'idiat

29

you consider worldly wisdom, when he was too young to
see that your mind was so poisoned by your own failure
in life, you wanted to beheve every man was a knave with
his soul for sale, and every woman who wasn’t a whore
was^ fool'

JAMEE (mth a dtfenswe air of weary indifference again). All
right. I did put Edmund wise to thmgs, but not until I
saw he’d started to raise hell, and knew he’d laugh at me
if I tned the good advice, older brother stuff. All I did
was make a pal of him and be absolutely frank so he’d
learn, from my mistakes that — {He shrugs fas shoulders —
(yracadly ) Well, that if you can’t be good you can at least
be carefiil.

{His father snorts contemptuously. Suddenly Jamu be-
comes really moved.)

That’s a rotten accusation. Papa. You know how much
the Kid means to me, and how close we’ve always been
— not like the usual brothers' I’d do anything for him.

TYRONE {impressed — rrwllifyingly). I know you may have
thought it was for the best, Jamie I didn’t say you did it
dehberately to harm him.

JAMIE. Besides, it’s damned rot' I’d like to see anyone
influence Edmund more than he wants to be. His qmet-
ness fools people into thinking they can do what they hke
with him. But he’s stubborn as hell inside and what he
does is what he wants to do, and to hell with anyone else!
What had I to do with all the crazy stunts he’s pulled in
the last few years — working his way all over the map as a
sailor and aU that stuff. I thought that was a damned
fool idea, and I told him so. You can’t imagine me gettmg
fun out of being on the beach in South America or living
in filthy dives, drinking rotgut, can you? No, thanks! I’ll
stick to Broadway, and a room with a bath, and bars that
serve bonded Bourbon.

30

TYRONE. You and Broadway' It’s made you what you
are ' ( With a touch of pnde ) Whatever Edmund’s done, he’s
had the guts to go oflF on his own, where he couldn’t come
whimng to me the nunute he was broke.

JAMIE {stung into sneering jealousy). He’s always come
home broke finally, hasn’t he? And what did Ins going
away get him^ Look at him now! {He is suddenly shame-
faced ) Chnst' That’s a lousy thing to say. I don’t mean
that.

TYRONE {decides to ignore this) . He’s been doing well on
the paper I was hoping he’d found the work he wants
to do at last. -*

jAim. {sneering jealously again). A hick town rag' What-
ever bull they hand you, they tell me he’s a pretty bum
reporter. If he weren’t your son — {Ashamed again ) No,
that’s not true' They’re glad to have him, but it’s the
speaal stuff that gets him by. Some of the poems and
parodies he’s written are damned good. {Grudgingly again.)
Not that they’d ever get him anywhere on the big time.
{Hastily.) But he’s certainly made a damned good start.

TYRONE. Yes. He’s made a start. You used to talk
about wantmg to become a newspaper man but you were
never wilhng to start at the bottom. You expected —

JAMIE. Oh, for Christ’s sake. Papa' Can’t you lay off
me!

TYRONE {stares at tarn — then looks away — after a pause).
It’s damnable luck Edmund should be sick right now. It
couldn’t have come at a worse time for him. {He adds, un-
able to conceal an almost furtive uneasiness.) Or for your
mother. It’s damnable she should have this to upset her,
just when she needs peace and fireedom fi-om worry. She’s
been so well in the two months since she came home.
{Hu voice grows husky and trembles a little.) It’s been heavm

31

to me. This home has been a home again. But I needn’t
tell you, Jamie.

{Hts son looks at him, for the first time with an under-
standing sympatf^. It is as if sudden^ a deep bond
of common feeling existed between them in which
their antagonisms could be forgotten.)

JAMIE {almost gently). I’ve felt the same way, Papa.

TYRONE. Yes, this time you can see how strong and
sure of herself she is. She’s a different woman entirely
from the other times. She has control of her nerves — or
she had until Edmund got sick Now you can feel her
growing tense and frightened underneath I wish to God
we could keep the truth from her, but we can’t if he has
to be sent to a sanatonum What makes it worse is her
father died of consumption. She worshipped him and she’s
never forgotten. Yes, it will be hard for her But she can
do it! She has the will-power now! We must help her,
Jamie, m every way we can'

JAMIE {moved). Of course. Papa. {Hesitantly) Outside
of nerves, she seems perfectly all right this mormng.

irrsom. {with hearty confidence now). Never better. She’s
full of fun and mischief {Suddenly he frowns at Jamie sus-
piciously ) Why do you say, seems^ Why shouldn’t she be
all right? What the hell do you mean?

JAMIE Don’t start jumping down my throat! God,
Papa, this ought to be one thing we can talk over frankly
without a battle.

TYRONE. I’m sorry, Janue. {Tensely.) But go on and
teU me —

JAMIE. There’s nothing to teU. I was aU wroi^. It’s
just that last night — Well, you know how it is, I can’t for-
get the past I can’t help bemg suspicious. Any more

33

than you can. {Bitterly) That’s the hell of it. And it
makes it hell for Mama! She watches us watchmg her —

TfROim {sadly). I know. {Tensely.) Well, what was it?
Can’t you speak out^

JAMIE. Nothing, I tell you. Just my damned foohsh-
ness. Around three o’clock this mormng, I woke up and
heard her movmg around in the spare room. Then she
went to the bathroom. I pretended to be asleep. She
stopped m the hall to listen, as if she wanted to make sure
I was.

TYRONE {mth _fyrced sconi). For God’s sake, is that all?
She told me herself the foghorn kept her awake all mght,
and every night since Edmund’s been sick she’s been up
and down, going to his room to see how he was

JAMIE {eagerly). Yes, that’s right, she did stop to listen
outside his room. {Hesitantly again.) It was her being m
the spare room that scared me. I couldn’t help remember-
ing that when she starts sleeping alone in there, it has
always been a sign —

TYRONE. It isn’t this time* It’s easily explained. Where
else could she go last mght to get away from my snoring?
{He gives way to a burst of resentfd anger ) By God, how you
can hve with a mind that sees nothing but the worst
motives behind everything is beyond me!

JAMIE {stung). Don’t pull that! I’ve just said I was all
wrong. Don’t you suppose I’m as glad of that as you are!

TYRONE {mollifyingly). I’m sure you are, Jamie. {A
pcaise. His expression becomes sombre. He speaks slowly with a
superstitious dread.) It would be like a curse she can’t escape
if worry over Edmund — It was m her long Sickness afr^
bringix^ him into the world that she finrt —

JAMIE. She didn’t have anything to do wdi

c 33

TYRONE. I’m not blaming her.

JAMIE {bihngly). Then who are you blaming^ Edmu
for bemg bom?

TYRONE. You damned fool' No one was to blame.

JAMIE. The bastard of a doctor was' From w
Mama’s said, he was another cheap quack hke Har
You wouldn’t pay for a first-rate —

TYRONE. That’s a he' {Furiously ) So I’m to blai
That’s what you’re dnving at, is it? You evd-mmc
loafer!

JAMIE {wamtngly as he hears his mother in the dimng-roo
Ssh!

{Tyrone gets hastily to his feet and goes to look out of
windows at right. Jamie speaks with a comp
change of tone )

Well, if we’re gomg to cut the firont hedge today, w
better go to work.

{Maiy comes in from the back parlour. She gives a qui
suspiaous glance from one to the other, her man
nervously self-conscious.)

TYRONE {turns from the window — with an actor's heartina
Yes, it’s too fine a mormng to waste mdoors argmi
Take a look out the window, Mary. There’s no fog m 1
harbour. I’m sure the spell of it we’ve had is over no\

MARY {going to him). I hope so, dear. {To Jamie, fore
a smile.) Did I actually hear you suggesting work on 1
front hedge, Janue'* Wonders will never cease! You mi
want pocket money badly.

JAMIE {kiddingly). When don’t P {He tdnks at I
with a dermve glance at his father.) I expect a salary

34

at least one large iron man at the end of the week — to
carouse on'

MARY {does not respond to hts humour — her hands fluttering
over the front of her dress). What were you two argumg
about'*

JAMIE {shrugs hts shoulders). The same old stuff.

MARY. I heard you say something about a doctor, and
your father accusmg you of bemg evil-minded.

JAMIE {quwkly). Oh, that. I was saymg again Doc
Hardy isn’t my idea of the world’s greatest physiaan.

MARY {knows he ts lying — vaguely). Oh. No, I wouldn’t
say he was, either. {Changing the subject — forang a smile )
That Bridget' I thought I’d never get away. She told me
aU about her second cousin on the pohee force m St.
Loms {Then with nervous irritation.) WeU, if you’re gomg
to work on the hedge why don’t you go^ {Hastily ) I
mean, take advantage of the sunshine before the fog
comes back. {Strangely, as f talking aloud to herself.) Be-
cause I know It will. {Suddenly she ts self-consciously aware
that they are both staring fixedly at her — flumedly, raising her
hands) Or I should say, the rheumatism in my hands
knows. It’s a better weather prophet than you are,
James. {She stares at her hands with fasetnaied repulsion.)
Ugh! How ugly they are! Who’d ever beheve they were
once beautiful?

{They stare at her with a growing dread.)

TYROiBE {takes her hands and gently pushes them dowri). Now,
now, Mary. None of that fbohshness. They’re the
sweetest hands in the world.

{She smiles, her face lighting up, and kisses him gratefully.
He turns to fas son)

C!ome on, Jaime. Your mother’s nght to scold us. The

35

way to start work is to start work The hot sun will sweat
some of that booze fat off your middle.

{He opens the screen door and goes out on the porch and
disappears down a flight of steps leading to the
ground, Jamie rises from his chair and^ taking off
his coatf goes to the door At the door he turns back
but avoids looking at her^ and she does not look at
him )

JAMIE {with an awkward, uneasy tenderness). We’re all so
proud of you. Mama, so darned happy.

{She stiffens and stares at him with a frightened defiance.
He flounders on,)

But you’ve still got to be careful You mustn’t worry so
much about Edmund. He’ll be all right.

MARY {with a stubborn, bitterly resentful look). Of course,
he’ll be all nght. And I don’t know what you mean,
warning me to be careful.

JAMIE {rebuffed and hurt, shrugs his shoulders). All right.
Mama. I’m sorry I spoke.

{He goes out on the porch. She waits rigidly until he dis-
appears down the steps. Then she sinks down in the
chair he had occupied, her face betraying a fright-
ened, furtive desperation, her hands roving over the
table top, aimlessly moving objects around. She hears
Edmund descending the stairs in the front hall. As
he nears the bottom he has a fit of coughing. She
springs to her feet, as if she wanted to run away
from the sound, and goes quscJdy to the windows at
nght. She is looking out, apparently calm, as he
enters from the front parlour, a book in one hand.
She turns to him, her lips set in a welcoming,
motherly smile,)

36

MARY. Here you are. I was just going upstairs to look
for you.

EDMUND. I waited until they went out I don’t want to
mix up in any arguments. I feel too rotten.

MARY {almost resentfully) Oh, I’m sure you don’t feel
half as badly as you make out You’re such a baby. You
like to get us worried so we’ll make a fuss over you.
[Hastily.) I’m only teasing, dear. I know how miserably
uncomfortable you must be. But you feel better today,
don’t youi* ( Worriedly, taking his arm.) All the same, you’ve
grown much too thin. You need to rest all you can. Sit
down and I’U mtke you comfortable.

[He sits down in the rocking-chair and she puts a pillow
behind his back )

There. How’s that^

EDMUND. Grand. Thanks, Mama.

MARY [kisses him — tenderly). All you need is your mother
to nurse you. Big as you are, you’re still the baby of the
family to me, you know.

EDMUND [takes her hand — with deep seriousness). Never
mind me. You take care of yourself. That’s all that
coimts.

MARY [evading his ^es). But I am, dear. [Forcing a
laugh.) Heavens, don’t you see how fat I’ve grown! I’ll
have to have all my dresses let out. [She tarns away and
goes to the windows at right. She attempts a light, amused tone.)
They’ve started chpping the hedge. Poor Jamie! How
he hates working in front where everyone passing can see
him- There go the Chatfields in their new Mercedes. It’s
a beautiful car, isn’t it^ Not hke our secondhand Packard.
Poor Jamie! He bent almost under the hedge so they
wouldn’t notice him. They bowed to your father and he

37

bowed back as if he were taking a curtain call. In that
filthy old suit I’ve tried to make him throw away. {Her
voice has grown hitter.) Really, he ought to have more pnde
than to make such a show of himself.

EDMUND He’s nght not to give a damn what anyone
t hinks . Jamie’s a fool to care about the Chatfields. For
Pete’s sake, who ever heard of them outside this hick burg^

MARY {with satufaction) No one. You’re qmte right,
Edmund. Big frogs in a small puddle It is stupid of
Jamie. {She pauses, looking out of the window — then with an
undercurrent of lonely yearning ) Still, the Chatfields and
people hke them stand for somethmg. Y mean they have
decent, presentable homes they don’t have to be ashamed
of. They have fiiends who entertain them and whom
they entertam. They’re not cut oflF fi:om everyone. {She
turns back from the window ) Not that I want anything to
do with them. I’ve always hated this town and everyone
in It. You know that I never wanted to hve here m the
first place, but your father hked it and insisted on bmldmg
this house, and I’ve had to come here every summer.

EDMUND. Well, it’s better than spending the summer in
a New York hotel, isn’t it’ And this town’s not so bad. I
like It well enough. I suppose because it’s the only home
we’ve had.

MARY. I’ve never felt it was my home. It was wrong
from the start. Everythmg was done m the cheapest way.
Your father would never spend the money to make it
nght. It’sjustas well we haven’t any fiiends here. I’d be
ashamed to have them step in the door. But he’s never
wanted family fiiends. He hates calhng on people, or
receivmg them. All he likes is to hobnob with men at the
Club or in a bar-room. Jamie and you are the same way,
but you’re not to blame. You’ve never had a chance to
meet decent people here. I know you both would have

38

been so different if you’d been able to assoaate with nice
girls instead of — You’d never have disgraced yourselves
as you have, so that now no respectable parents will let
their daughters be seen with you.

EDMUND {imtablj) Oh, Mama, forget it' Who cares?
Jamie and I would be bored stiff. And about the Old
Man, what’s the use of talking? You can’t change him.

MARY {meckaracally rebuking) Don’t call your father the
Old Man. You should have more respect {Then duUy.)
I know it’s useless to talk. But sometimes I feel so lonely.
{Her lips quiver and she keeps her head turned cojoqy )

EDMUND. An)way, you’ve got to be fair. Mama. It
may have been all his fault m the begmiung, but you
know that later on, even if he’d wanted to, we couldn’t
have had people here— {He flounders guiltily,) I mean,
you wouldn’t have wanted them

MARY {mrwing — her lips quivering pitvfully). Don’t. I
can’t bear having you reimnd me.

EDMUND. Don’t take it that way! Please, Mama! I’m
trying to help. Because it’s bad for you to forget. The
right way is to remember. So you’ll always be on your
guard. You know what’s happened before. {Miserably )
God, Mama, you know I hate to remind you. I’m doing
It because it’s been so wonderful having you home the
way you’ve been, and it would be terrible —

MARY {stnckenly). Please, dear. I know you mean it for
the best, but — {A defensive uneasiness comes into her voice
agcan.) I don’t understand why you should suddenly say
such things. What put it in your nund this mommg?

EDMUND {evasively). Nothing. Just because I fed rotten
and blue, I suppose.

MARY. TeU me the truth. Why are you so suspidous
all of a sudden?

39

EDMOND. I’m not!

MARY. Oh, yes you are. I can feel it. Your father and
Janue, too — particularly Jamie.

EDMUND. Now don’t start imagining things, Mama.

MARY {her hands fluttering). It makes it so much harder,
hving m this atmosphere of constant suspicion, knowing
everyone is spying on me, and none of you beheve in me,
or trust me.

EDMUND. That’s crazy. Mama. We do trust you.

MARY. If there was only some place J could go to get
away for a day, or even an afternoon, some woman fnend
I could talk to — not about anything senous, sim ply laugh
and gossip and forget for a while — someone besides the
servants — that stupid Cathleen'

EDMUND {gets up worriedly and puts his arm around her).
Stop it. Mama. You’re getting yourself worked up over
nothing.

MARY. Your father goes out. He meets his fiiends in
bar-rooms or at the Club. You and Jamie have the boys
you know. You go out. But I am alone. I’ve always been
alone.

EDMUND {soothingly). Come now! You know that’s a fib.
One of us always stays around to keep you company, or
goes with you m the automobile when you take a drive.

MARY {bitterly). Because you’re afraid to trust me alone!
{She turns on him — sharply.) I insist you tell me why you act
so differently this morning — why you felt you had to re-
mind me —

EDMUND {hesitates — then blurts out guilti^) . It’s stupid.
It’s just that I wasn’t asleep when you came in my room

40

last night. You didn’t go back to your and Papa’s room.
You went m the spare room for the rest of the night.

MARY. Because your father’s snoring was driving me
crazy! For heaven’s sake, haven’t I often used the spare
room as my bedroom^ {Bitterly.) But I see what you
thought. That was when —

EDMUND {too vehemently). I didn’t think anything!

MARY. So you pretended to be asleep m order to spy
on me'

EDMUND. No' I did it because I knew if you found out
I was fevensh afld couldn’t sleep, it would upset you.

MARY. Janue was pretending to be asleep, too, I’m sure,
and I suppose your father —

EDMUND. Stop It, Mama!

MARY. Oh, I can’t bear it, Edmund, when even you — !
[Her hands Jbitter up to pat her hair in their aimless, distracted
way. Suddenly a strange undercurrent of revengefiilness comes
into her voice.) It would serve all of you right if it was true'

EDMUND. Meuna! Don’t say that! That’s the way you
talk when —

MARY. Stop suspecting me' Please, dear' You hurt
me' I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about you.
That’s the real reason! I’ve been so worried ever since
you’ve been sick. {She puts her arms around him and hugs him
with a frightened, protective tenderness.)

EDMUND {soothingly). That’s foolishness. You know it’s
only a bad cold.

MARY. Yes, of course, I know that!

EDMUND. But listen. Mama. I want you to promise me
that even if it should turn out to be something worse,

41

you’ll blow I’ll soon be all right again, anyway, and you
won’t worry yourself sick, and you’ll keep on tabng care
of yourself—

MARY {fnghtenedlj). I won’t listen when you’re so silly'
There’s absolutely no reason to talk as if you expected
something dreadM' Of course, I promise you. I give
you my sacred word of honour ' ( Then with a sad bitterness.)
But I suppose you’re remembenng I’ve promised before
on my word of honour.

EDMUND. No!

MARY {her bitterness receding into a resi^dhelplessness) . I’m
not blaming you, dear. How can you help it'* How can
any one of us forget'* {Strangely ) That’s what makes it so
hard — for all of us. We can’t forget.

EDMUND {grabs her shoulder). Mama' Stop it!

MARY {forang a smile). All tight, dear. I didn’t mean to
be so gloomy. Don’t mind me. Here. Let me feel your
head Why, it’s mce and cool. You certainly haven’t any
fever now.

EDMUND Forget! It’s you —

MARY But I’m quite all right, dear. {With a quick, strange,
calculating, almost sly glance at him.) Except I naturally feel
tired and nervous this mormng, after such a bad night. I
really ought to go upstairs and he down until lunch-time
and take a nap. {He gives her an instinctive look of suspicion —
then, ashamed of himself, looks quickly away She humes on
nervously.) What are you going to do? Read here^ It
would be much better for you to go out in the fresh air
and sunshine. But don’t get overheated, remember. Be
sure and wear a hat. {She stops, looking straight at him now.
He avoids her eyes. There is a tense pause. Then she speaks
jeenn^y.) Or are you afraid to trust me alone?

42

EDMUND {tormentedly). No! Can’t you stop talking like
that? I think you ought to take a nap {He goes to the screen
door — forcing a joking tone ) I’ll go down and help Jamie
bear up. I love to he in the shade and watch him work.

{He forces a laugh in which she makes herself join Then
he goes out on the porch and disappears down the
steps. Her first reaction is one of relief She appears
to relax She sinks down in one of the wicker arm--
chairs at rear of table and leans her head back^ closing
her eyes But suddenly she grows terribly tense again
Her eyes open and she strains forward^ seized by a
fit of nervous panic. She begins a desperate battle with
herself Her long fingers^ warped and knotted by
rheumatism^ drum on the arms of the chair^ driven
by an insistent life of their own^ without her consent.)

Curtain

43

ACT TWO, SCENE ONE

SCENE. The same. It u around quarter to one. Mo sunlight comes
into the room now through the windows at right Outside the
day IS still fine but increasingly sultry^ with a faint haziness
in the air which softens the glare of the sun.

Edmund sits in the armchair at left of table^ reading a
book. Or rather he u trying to concentrate on it but cannot.
He seems to be listening for some sound from upstairs His
manner u nervously apprehensive and he looks more sickly
than in the previous act

The second girl^ Cathleen^ enters from the back parlour.
She carries a tray on which is a bottle of bonded Bourbon^
several whiskey glasses^ and a pitcher of ice water. She is a
buxom Irish peasant^ in her early twenties, with a red-
cheeked comely face, black hair and blue eyes — amiable,
Ignorant, clum^, and possessed by a dense, well-meaning
stupidity. She puts the tray on the table. Edmund pretends
to be so absorbed in his book he does not notice her, but she
Ignores this.

CATHLEEN {with garrulous familiarity) . Here’s the whiskey.
It’ll be lunch-time soon. Will I call your father and Mister
Jamie, or will you?

EDMUND {without looking up from his book). You do it.

CATHLEEN. It’s a wouder your father wouldn’t look at
his watch once in a while. He’s a divil for making the
meals late, and then Bridget curses me as if I was to blame.
But he’s a grand handsome man, if he is old. You’ll never
see the day you’re as good-looking — nor Mister Jamie,
either. {She chuckles.) I’ll wager Mister Jamie wouldn’t

44

miss the time to stop work and have his drop of whiskey if
he had a watch to his name’

EDMUiro (gives up trying to ignore her and gnns). You win
that one.

CATHLEEN And here’s another I’d win, that you’re
making me call them so you can sneak a dnnk before they
come.

EDMUND Well, I hadn’t thought of that —

CATHLEEN Oh no, not you* Butter wouldn’t melt in
your mouth, I suppose.

EDMUND. But now you suggest it —

CATHLEEN (suddenly primly virtuous) I’d never suggest a
man or a woman touch dnnk. Mister Edmund. Sure
didn’t It kill an uncle of nune in the old country. (Relent-
ing.) Still, a drop now and then is no harm when you’re
m low spmts, or have a bad cold.

EDMUND. Thanks for handing me a good excuse. (Then
with forced casucdruss ) You’d better call my mother, too.

CATHLEEN. What for? She’s always on time without
any calling. God bless her, she has some consideration for
the help.

EDMUND. She’s been taking a nap.

CATHLEEN. She Wasn’t asleep when I finished my work
upstairs a while back. She was lying down in the spare
room with her eyes wide open. She’d a terrible headache,
she said.

EDMUND (kis casualness more forced). Oh well then, just
call my father.

CATHLEEN (goes to tiie screen door, gnmbUng good-naiuredfy).

45

No wonder my feet kill me each mght. I won’t walk out
m this heat and get sunstroke. I’ll call from the porch.

[She goes out on the side porch^ letting the screen door slam
behind her^ and disappears on her way to the front
porch A moment later she is heard shouting )

Mister Tyrone* Mister Jamie! It’s time*

{Edmund^ who has been staring fnghtenedly before him^
forgetting his book^ springs to his feet nervously.)

EDMUND God, what a wench*

{He grabs the bottle and pours a dnnk^ adds ice water and
dnnks As he does so, he hears someone coming in the
front door. He puts the glass hastily on the tray and
sits down again, opening his book Jamie comes in
from the front parlour, his coat over his arm. He has
taken off collar and tie and carries them in his hand
He IS wiping sweat from his forehead with a hand-
kerchief Edmund looks up as if his reading was
interrupted. Jamie takes one look at the bottle and
glasses and smiles cynically.)

JAMIE. Sneaking one, eh? Cut out the bluff, Kid.
You’re a rottener actor than I am

EDMUND {gnns). Yes, I grabbed one while the going was
good.

JAMIE {puts a hand affectionately on his shoulder). That’s
better. Why kid me^ We’re pals, aren’t we^

EDMUND. I wasn’t sure it was you coming.

JAMIE. I made the Old Man look at his watch, I was
halfway up the walk when Gathleen burst into song Our
wild lush lark* She ought to be a train announcer.

EDMUND. That’s what drove me to drink. Why don’t
you sneak one while you’ve got a chance?

46

JAMIE. I was tbinking of that httle thing {He goes
quickly to the window at ngkt.) The Old Man was tallHng
to old Captain Turner. Yes, he’s stdl at it. {He comes back
and takes a dnnk ) And now to cover up from his eagle eye.
{He memorizes the level in the bottle after every dnnk. He
measures two dnnks of water and pours them in the whiskey bottle
and shakes it up ) There. That fixes it {He pours water in
the glass and sets it on the table by Edmund ) And here’s the
water you’ve been dnnkmg.

EDMUND Fme I You don’t think it will fool him, do you?

JAMIE. Maybe not, but he can’t prove it {Putting on his
collar and tie) 1 liope he doesn’t forget lunch hstemng to
himself talk. I’m hungry. {He sits across the table from Ed-
mund — imtably ) That’s what I hate about working down
in front. He puts on an act for every damned fool that
comes along.

EDMUND {gloomily). You’re in luck to be hungry. The
way I feel I don’t care if I ever eat again.

JAMIE {gives km a glance of concern) Listen, Kid. You
know me. I’ve never lectured you, but Doctor Hardy was
nght when he told you to cut out the redeye.

EDMUND. Oh, I’m going to after he hands me the bad
news this afternoon. A few before then won’t make any
difference.

JAMIE {hesiiates — then slowly). I’m glad you’ve got your
mind prepared for bad news It won’t be such a jolt {He
catches Edmund stanng at him.) I mean, it’s a cinch you’re
really sick, and it would be wrong dope to kid yourself.

EDMUND {disturbed). I’m not I know how rotten I feel,
and the fever and chills I get at mght are no joke. I think
Doctor Hardy’s last guess was nght. It must be the
damned malana come back on me.

47

JAMIE. Maybe, but don’t be too sure.

EDMUND. Why? What do you think it is^

JAMIE. Hell, how would I know? I’m no Doc. {Abruptly.)
Where’s Mama?

EDMUND. Upstairs.

JAMES {looks at him sharply). When did she go up^

EDMUND. Oh, about the time I came down to the hedge,
I guess She said she was going to take a nap.

JAMIE. You didn’t tell me —

EDMUND {defensively). Why should P What about iP
She was tired out. She didn’t get much sleep last mght.

JAMIE. I know she didn’t.

{A pause. The brothers avoid looking at each other )

EDMUND. That damned foghorn kept me awake, too.

{Another pause.)

JAMIE. She’s been upstairs sdone all morning, eh? You
haven’t seen her?

EDMUND. No. I’ve been reading here. I wanted to give
her a chance to sleep.

JAMIE. Is she coming down to lunch?

EDMUND. Of course.

jKusm {dryly). Noofcourseaboutit. She might not want
any lunch. Or she might start having most of her meals
alone upstairs. That’s happened, hasn’t it?

EmiUND {with Jhgklened resentment). Cut it out, Jamie!
Can’t you think anything but — ? {Persuasively.) You’re
aU wrong to suspect anything. Cathleen saw her not long

48

ago. Mama didn’t tell her she wouldn’t be down to
lunch

JAMIE, Then she wasn’t taking a nap^

EDMUND. Not right then, but she was lying down, Cath-
leen said.

JAMIE. In the spare room?

EDMUND Yes For Pete’s sake, what of it^

JAMIE {bursts out). You damned fool! Why did you
leave her alone so long? Why didn’t you stick around?

EDMUND. Because she accused me — and you and Papa
— of spying on her all the time and not trusting her. She
made me feel ashamed. I know how rotten it must be for
her. And she promised on her sacred word of honour —

JAMIE {with a hitter weariness). You ought to know that
doesn’t mean anything,

EDMUND. It does this time*

JAMIE That’s what we thought the other times. {He
leans over the table to give his brother"* s arm an affectionate grasp,)
Listen, Kid, I know you think I’m a cynical bastard, but
remember I’ve seen a lot more of this game than you have.
You never knew what was really wrong until you were in
prep school. Papa and I kept it from you. But I was wise
ten years or more before we had to tell you. I know the
game backwards and I’ve been thinking all mormng of the
way she acted last mght when she thought we were asleep.
I haven’t been able to think of anything else. And now
you tell me she got you to leave her alone upstairs all
mormng.

EDMUND. She didn’t! You’re crazy!

JAMIE {placatingly). All right, Ead. Don’t start a battle

49

with me. I hope as much as you do I’m crazy. I’ve been
as happy as hell because I’d really begun to believe that
this time — {He stops — looking through the front parlour to-
ward the hall — lowering his voice^ hurriedly ) She’s coming
downstairs. You win on that I guess I’m a damned sus-
picious louse.

{They grow tense with a hopeful^ fearful expectancy,
Jamie mutters.)

Damn* I wish I’d grabbed another dnnk.

EDMUND. Me, too.

{He coughs nervously and this brings on a real fit of cough-
ing Jamie glances at him with worried pity Mary
enters from the front parlour At first one notices no
change except that she appears to be less nervous^ to
be more as she was when we first saw her after break-
fast^ but then one becomes aware that her eyes are
brighter^ and there is a peculiar detachment in her
voice and manner^ as if she were a little withdrawn
from her words and actions.)

MARY {goes worriedly to Edmund and puts her arm around him ) .
You mustn’t cough hke that It’s bad for your throat.
You don’t want to get a sore throat on top of your cold.

{She kisses him. He stops coughing and gives her a quick
apprehensive glance^ but if his suspicions are aroused
her tenderness makes him renounce them and he be-
lieves what he wants to believe for the moment. On
the other hand^ Jamie knows after one probing look
at her that his suspicions are justified. His eyes fall
to stare at the floor^ his face sets in an expression of
embittered^ defensive cynicism. Mary goes on^ half
sitting on the arm of Edmunds chair^ her arm
around him^ so her face is above and behind his and
he cannot look into her eyes.)

50

But I seem to be always picking on you, telling you don’t
do this and don’t do that. Forgive me, dear. It’s just that
I want to take care of you.

EDMUND. I know, Mama. How about you^ Do you feel
rested^

MARY, Yes, ever so much better I’ve been lying down
ever since you went out. It’s what I needed after such a
restless mght I don’t feel nervous now.

EDMUND. That’s fine.

{He pats her hand on his shoulder. Jamie gives him a
stran^e^ almost contemptuous glance^ wondering if
his brother can really mean thu. Edmund does not
notice but his mother does )

MARY {in a forced teasing tone). Good heavens, how down
in the mouth you look, Jamie* What’s the matter now?

JAMIE {without looking at her). Nothing.

MARY. Oh, I’d forgotten you’ve been working on the
front hedge. That accounts for your sinking into the
dumps, doesn’t it?

JAMIE. If you want to think so. Mama.

MARY {keeping her tone). Well, that’s the effect it always
has, isn’t it^ What a big baby you are* Isn’t he, Edmund?

EDMUND. He’s certainly a fool to care what anyone
thinks.

MARY {strangely). Yes, the only way is to make yourself
not care, (5!^^ catches fame giving her a bitter glance and
changes the subject.) Where is your father? I heard Cath-
leen call him.

EDMUND. Gabbing with old Captain Turner, Jamie
savs.

3 ^

{Jamie gets up and goes to the windows at rights glad of
an excuse to turn his back )

MARY. IVe told Cathleen time and again she must go
wherever he is and tell him. The idea of screaming as if
this were a cheap boardmghouse!

JAMIE {looking out of the window). She’s down there now.
{Sneenngly) Interrupting the famous Beautiful Voice*
She should have more respect.

MARY {sharply — letting her resentment toward him come out).
It’s you who should have more respect* Stop sneenng at
your father! I won’t have it! You oil^ht to be proud
you’re his son* He may have his faults. Who hasn’t^ But
he’s worked hard all Ins hfe. He made his way up from
ignorance and poverty to the top of his profession* Every-
one else admires him and you should be the last one to
sneer — you, who, thanks to him, have never had to work
hard in your hfe!

{Stung^ Jamie has turned to stare at her with accusing an-^
tagomsm. Her eyes waver guiltily and she adds in a
tone which begins to placate )

Remember your father is getting old, Jaime. You really
ought to show more consideration.

JAMIE I ought to?

EDMUND {uneasily). Oh, dry up, Jamie*

{Jamie looks out of the window again.)

And, for Pete’s sake, Mama, why jump on Jamie all of a
sudden?

MARY {bitterly). Because he’s always sneering at some-
one else, always looking for the worst weakness in every-
one. {Then with a strange^ abrupt change to a detached^ mper-

52

sonal tone.) But I suppose life has made him hke that, and
he can’t help it. None of us can help the things hfe has
done to us. They’re done before you reahze it, and once
Aey’re done they make you do other things until at last
everything comes between you and what you’d hke to be,
and you’ve lost your true self for ever.

{Edmund is made apprehensive by her strangeness. He
tries to look up in her eyes but she keeps them averted.
Jamie turns to her — then looks quickly out of tiie
window again )

JAMEE {dully). I’m hungry. I wish the Old Man would
get a move on. It’s a rotten tnck the way he keeps meals
waiting, and then beefs because they’re spoiled.

MARY {with a resentment that has a quality of being automatic
and on the surface while inwardly she is indifferent) Yes, it’s
very trying, Jamie. You don’t know how trying. You
don’t have to keep house with summer servants who don’t
care because they know it isn’t a permanent position. The
really good servants are all with people who have homes
and not merely summer places. And your fadier won’t
even pay the wages the best summer help ask. So every
year I have stupid, lazy greenhorns to deal with. But
you’ve heard me say this a thousand times. So has he, but
it goes in one ear and out the other. He thinks money
spent on a home is mbney wasted. He’s hved too much m
hotels. Never the best hotels, of course. Second-rate
hotels. He doesn’t understand a home. He doesn’t feel at
home in it. And yet, he wants a home. He’s even proud
of having this shabby place. He lov« it here. {She laughs
— a hopeless and yet amused laugh ) It’s really fanny, when
you come to think of it. He’s a peculiar man.

EDMOND {again attempting uneasily to look up in her eyes).
What makes you ramble on hke ^t. Mama?

53

MARY {quickly casual — patting hs cheek). Why, nothing
in particular, dear. It is foohsh.

{As she speaks, Cathleen enters from the back parlour.)

CATHLEEN {volubly). Lunch is ready. Ma’am. I went
down to Mister Tyrone, hke you ordered, and he said he’d
come nght away, but he kept on talking to that man,
tellin g him of the time when —

MARY {indifferently). All nght, Cathleen Tell Bridget
I’m sorry but she’ll have to wait a few minutes until
Mister Tyrone is here.

{Cathleen mutters, “Yes, Ma’am,” Gnd goes off through
the back parlour, grumbling to herself)

JAMIE. Damn it! Why don’t you go ahead without
himi* He’s told us to.

MARY {mth a remote, amused smile) . He doesn’t mean it.
Don’t you know your father yet’ He’d be so terribly hurt.

EDMUND {jumps up — as if he was glad of an excuse to leave).
I’ll make him get a move on. {He goes out on the side porch.
A moment later he is heard calling from the porch exasperatedly )
Hey! Papa! Gome on’ We can’t wait all day’

{Mary has risen from the arm of the chair. Her hands
play restlessly over the table top She does not look at
Jamie but she feels the cynically appraising glance
he gyves her face and hands.)

MARY {tensely). Why do you stare hke that?

JAMIE. You know. {He turns back to the window.)

MARY. I don’t know.

JAMIE. Oh, for God’s sake, do you think you can fool
me. Mama? I’m not bhnd.

MARY {looks directly at km now, her face set again in an

54

expression of blanks stubborn denial). I don’t know what
you’re tallang about.

JAMIE, No? Take a look at your eyes in the mirror!

EDMUND {coming in from the porch) I got Papa moving
He’ll be here in a minute. {With a glance from one to the
other y which his mother avoids — uneasily ) What’s happened^
What’s the matter. Mama?

MARY {disturbed by his comings gives way to a flurry of guilty y
nervous excitement). Your brother ought to be ashamed of
himself He’s been insinuating I don’t know what.

EDMUND {tums^on Jamie), God damn you!

{He takes a threatening step toward him Jamie turns Ms
back with a shrug and looks out of the window,)

MARY {more upset y grabs Edmund^ s arm — excited^). Stop
this at once, do you hear me^ How dare you use such
language before me^ {Abruptly her tone and manner change
to the strange detachment she has shown before,) It’s wrong to
blame your brother. He can’t help being what the past
has made him. Any more than your father can. Or you.
Or I.

EDMUND {fnghtenedly — with a desperate hoping against hope) ,
He’s a har! It’s a he, isn’t it, Mama?

MARY {keeping her eyes averted) , What is a he? Now you’re
talking in riddles like Jamie. ( Then her eyes meet his stnckeUy
accusing look. She stammers,) Edmund* Don’t! {She looks
away and her manner instantly regains the quality of strange de-
tachment — calmly,) There’s your father coming up the
steps now. I must tell Bridget.

{She goes through the back parlour Edmund moves slowly
to his chair. He looks sick and hopeless,)

JAMIE {from the windowy without looking around). Well?

55

I said, in moderation. {He pours his own drink and passes the
bottle to Jamie^ grumbling.) Itid be a waste of breath men-
tiomng moderation to you.

{Ignoring the hint^ Jamie pours a big drink His father
scowls — then^ giving it up^ resumes his hearty air^
raising his glass )

Well, here^s health and happiness^

{Edmund gives a bitter laugh )

EDMUND. Thafsajoke!

TYRONE. What IS^

EDMUND. Nothing. Here’s how.

{They drink )

TYRONE {becoming aware of the atmosphere). What’s the
matter here^ There’s gloom in the air you could cut with
a knife. ( Turns on Jamie resentfully.) You got the dnnk you
were after, didn’t you? Why are you weanng that gloomy
look on your mug^

JAMIE {shrugging his shoulders). You won’t be singing a
song yourself soon.

EDMUND. Shut up, Jamie.

TYRONE {uneasy now — changing the subject). I thought
lunch was ready. I’m hungry as a hunter. Where is your
mother?

MARY {returning through the back parlour^ calls). Here I am.
{She comes in. She is excited and self-consaous. As she tcdks^ she
glances everywhere except at any oft^ir faces.) I’ve had to calm
down Bridget. She’s in a tantrum over your being late
again, and I don’t blame her. If your lunch is dned up
jfrom waiting in the oven, she said it served you right,

57

you could like it or leave it for all she cared, {With increas-
ing excitement ) Oh, I’m so sick and tired of pretending this
IS a home', You won’t help me' You won’t put yourself
out the least bit! You don’t know how to act in a home!
You don’t really want one! You never have wanted one —
never smce the day we were mamed! You should have
remained a bachelor and hved m second-rate hotels and
entertained your fiiends m bar-rooms' {She adds strangely,
as if she were now talking aloud to herself rather than to Tyrone )
Then nothing would ever have happened.

{They stare at her Tyrone knows now. He suddenly
looks a tired, bitterly sad old man Edmund glances
at his father and sees that he knows, but he still can-
not help trying to warn his mother )

EDMUND. Mama' Stop talking. Why don’t we go in to
lunch.

MARY {starts and at once the quality of unnatural detachment
settles on her face again She even smiles with an iroracal amuse-
ment to herself). Yes, it is inconsiderate of me to dig up the
past, when I know your father and Jamie must be hungry.
{Putting fur arm around Edmund's shoulder — with a fond solici-
tude which IS at the same time remote ) I do hope you have an
appetite, dear. You really must eat more. {Her eyes be-
come fixed on the whisky glass on the table beside him — sharply.)
Why is that glass there''* Did you take a drink? Oh, how
can you be such a fool? Don’t you know it’s the worst
thing? {She turns on Tyrone) You’re to blame, James
How could you let him^ Do you want to kill him'* Don’t
you remember my father^ He wouldn’t stop after he was
stncken. He said doctors were fools' He thought, like
you, that whiskey is a good tome! {A look of terror comes
into her ^es and she stammers) But, of course, there’s
no comparison at all. I don’t know why I — Forgive me
for scolding you, James. One small drink won’t hurt

58

Edmund. It might be good for him, if it gives him an
appetite.

{She pats Edmund^ s cheek playfully^ the strange detach-^
ment again tn her manner. He jerks his head away.
She seems not to notice^ but she moves instinctively
away )

JAMIE {roughly^ to hide his tense nerves). For God’s sake,
let’s eat. I’ve been working in the damned dirt under the
hedge all morning. I’ve earned my grub. {He comes
around behind his father^ not looking at his mother, and grabs
Edmund^ s shoulder ) Come on. Kid. Let’s put on the feed
bag.

{Edmund gets up, keeping his eyes averted from his
mother. They pass her, heading for the back
parlour )

TYRONE {dully). Yes, you go in with your mother, lads.
I’ll join you in a second.

{But they keep on without waiting for her. She looks at
their hacks with a helpless hurt and, as th^ enter the
back parlour, starts to follow them. Tyrone^ s eyes
are on her, sad and condemning. She feels them and
turns sharply without meeting his stare.)

MARY. Why do you look at me like that? {Her hands
flutter up to pat her hair.) Is it my hair coming down^ I
was so worn out from last mght. I thought I’d better he
down this mormng. I drowsed off and had a mce re-
freshing nap. But I’m sure I fixed my hair again when I
woke up. {Forcing a laugh.) Although, as usual, I couldn’t
find my glasses {Sharply) Please stop stanng! One would
think you were accusing me— {Then pleadingly.) James!
You don’t understand!

TYRONE {with dull anger). I understand that I’ve been a

59

God-damned fool to believe m you' {He walks away from
her to pour himself a big dnnk.)

MARY {her face again sets in stubborn defiance). I don’t know
what you mean by “behevmg in me”. All IVe felt was
distrust and spying and suspiaon {Then accusingly.) Why
are you having another dnnk? You never have more than
one before lunch. {Bitterly ) I know what to expect. You
will be drunk tomght. Well, it won’t be the first time, will
It — or the thousandth^ {Again she bursts out pleaimgly )
Oh, James, please' You don’t understand! I’m so worried
about Edmund' I’m so afraid he —

TYRONE. I don’t want to listen to your excuses, Mary.

MARY {stnckenlj). Excuses^ You mean—'* Oh, you
can’t beheve that of me ' Y ou mustn’t beheve that, J ames '

( Then slipping away into her strange detachment — quite casually.)
Shall we not go in to lunch, dear? I don’t want anything
but I know you’re hungry.

{He walks slowly to where she stands in the doorwcqy He
walks like an old man. As he reaches her she bursts
out piteously )

James! I tned so hard' I tned so hard! Pleaise beheve — !

TYRONE {moved in spite of himself — helplessly). I suppose
you did, Mary. {Then gnef-stnckenly) For the love of
God, why couldn’t you have the strength to keep on?

MARY {her face setting into that stubborn dental again). I
don’t know what you’re talkmg about. Have the strength
to keep on what?

TYRONE {hopelessly). Never mind. It’s no use now.

{He moves on and she keeps beside km as thep disappear
tn the back parlour.)

CuRTAm

6o

ACT TWO, SCENE TWO

SCENE. The same^ about half an hour later The tray with the
bottle of whiskey has been removed from the table. The family
are returning from lunch as the curtain nses, Mary is the
first to enter from the back parlour. Her husband follows. He
IS not with her as he was in the similar entrance after break'-
fast at the opening of Act One. He avoids touching her or
looking at her There is condemnation in his face^ mingled
now with the beginning of an old weary ^ helpless resignation.
Jamie and Edmund follow their father Jamie's face is hard
with defensive cynicism. Edmund tries to copy this defence
but without success. He plainly shows he is heartsick as well
as physically ill.

Mary is terribly nervous again^ as if the strain of sitting
through lunch with them had been too much for her Tet at
the same time^ in contrast to this^ her expression shows more
of that strange aloofness which seems to stand apart from her
nerves and the anxieties which harry them.

She IS talking as she enters — a stream of words that issues
casually^ in a routine of family conversation^ from her
mouth. She appears indifferent to the fact that their thoughts
are not on what she is saying any more than her own are. Als
she talks ^ she comes to the left of the table and stands^ facing
fronts one hand fumbling with the bosom of her dress, tiu
other playing over the table top. Tyrone lights a agar and
goes to the screen door, staring out. Jamie fills a pipe from
ajar on top of the bookcase at rear. He lights it as he goes to
look out of the window at right. Edmund sits in a chair by
the table, turned half away from his mother so he does not
have to watch her.

MARY. It’s no use finding fault with Bridget. She doesn’t
listen. I can’t threaten her, or she’d threaten she’d leave.
And she does do her best at times. It’s too bad they seem

6i

to be just the times you’re sure to be late, James. Well,
there’s this consolation: it’s difficult to tell from her cook-
ing whether she’s doing her best or her worst. {She gives a
little laugh of detached amusement — indifferently ) Never mind.
The summer will soon be over, thank goodness. Your
season will open again and we can go back to second-rate
hotels and trams. I hate them, too, but at least I don’t
expect them to be hke a home, and there’s no housekeep-
ing to worry about. It’s unreasonable to expect Bridget
or Cathleen to act as if this was a home. They know it
isn’t as well as we know it. It never has been and it never
wdl be.

TYRONE {bitterly zmthout turning around). No, it never can
be now. But it was once, before you —

MARY {her face instantly set in blank denied) . Before I what'^
{There is a dead silence. She goes on with a return of her detached
air.) No, no Whatever you mean, it isn’t true, dear It
was never a home. You’ve always preferred the Club or a
bar-room. And for me it’s always been as lonely as a dirty
room in a one-mght stand hotel. In a real home one is
never lonely. You forget I know from expenence what a
home IS like. I gave up one to marry you — my father’s
home. {At once, through an association of ideas she turns to
Edmund. Her manner becomes tenderly solicitous, but there is the
strange quality of detachment in it ) I’m worried about you,
Edmund. You hardly touched a thing at lunch. That’s
no way to take care of yourself It’s all nght for me not to
have an appetite. I’ve been growing too fat. But you must
eat. {Coaxingly maternal.) Promise me you will, dear, for
my sdee.

EDMUND {dully) Yes, Mama.

MARY {pats fns cheek as he tries not to shrink away). That’s
a good boy.

{There is another pause of dead silence. Then Ike tele-
62

phone in the front hall rings and all of them stiffen
startledly )

TYRONE {hastily). I’ll answer. McGmre said he’d call
me {He goes out through the frond parlour.)

MARY {indifferently) McGmre. He must have another
piece of property on his hst that no one would think of
buying except your father. It doesn’t matter any more,
but It’s always seemed to me your father could afford to
keep on buying property but never to give me a home.
{She stops to listen as Tyrone^ s voice is heard from the hall.)

TYRONE. Hello. {With forced heartiness.) Oh, how are
you, Doctor^

{Jamie turns from the mndow. Marfs fingers play more
rapidly on the table top. Tyrone's voice^ trying to
conceal^ reveals that he is hearing bad news.)

I see — {Hurriedly ) Well, you’ll explain aU about it when
you see him this afternoon Yes, he’ll be in without fail
Four o’clock. I’ll drop m myself and have a talk with you
before that. I have to go uptown on business, anyway
Goodbye, Doctor.

EDMUND {dully). That didn’t sound hke glad tidings.

{Jamie gives him a pitying glance — then looks out of the
mndow again. Marfs face is terrified and her
hands flutter distractedly Tyrone comes in. The
strain is obvious in his casualness as he addresses
Edmund.)

TYRONE. It was Doctor Hardy. He wants you to be
sure and see him at four.

EDMUND {dully). What did he say? Not that I give a
damn now.

MARY {bursts out excitedly) I wouldn’t believe him if he

63

swore on a stack of Bibles You mustn’t pay attention to
a word he says, Edmund.

TYRONE {sharply) . Mary!

MARY {more exatedly). Oh, we all reahze why you hke
him, James* Because he’s cheap' But please don’t try to
tell me' I know all about Doctor Hardy Heaven knows
I ought to after all these years He’s an ignorant fool'
There should be a law to keep men hke him from practis-
ing. He hasn’t the shghtest idea — When you’re in agony
and half msane, he sits and holds your hand and dehvers
sermons on will-power' {Her face u dr aim in an expression of
intense suffering by the memory For the rnbment, she loses dl
caution With bitter hatred) He dehberately humihates you'
He makes you beg and plead' He treats you hke a
cnimnal! He understands nothing' And yet it was exactly
the same type of cheap quack who first gave you the medi-
cine— and you never knew what it was until too late'
{Passionately ) I hate doctors' They’ll do anything — any-
thing to keep you coming to them. They’ll sell their souls'
What’s more, they’ll sell yours, and you never know it till
one day you find yourself in hell'

EDMUND. Mama' For God’s sake, stop talking.

TYRONE {shakenly). Yes, Mary, it’s no time —

MARY {suddenly is overcome by gmlty confusion — stammers).
I — Forgive me, dear. You’re nght. It’s useless to be
angry now. ( There is again a pause of dead silence. When she
speaks agam, her face has cleared and is calm, and the qudity of
uncanny detachment is in her voice and manner.) I’m gomg up-
stairs for a moment, if you’ll excuse me. I have to fix my
hair. {She adds smilingly.) That is if I can find my glasses.
I’ll be nght down.

TYRONE (or she Starts through the doomey — pleading and
rebuking), Mary!

MARY {turns to stare at him calmly). Yes, dear? What is it?

TYRONE {helplessly). Nothing.

MARY {with a strange derisive smile) You’re welcome to
come up and watch me if you’re so suspicious

TYRONE. As if that could do any good^ You’d only
postpone It. And I’m not your jailor. This isn’t a prison.

MARY. No. I know you can’t help thinking it’s a home.
{She adds quickly with a detached contrition ) I’m sorry, dear.
I don’t mean to be bitter. It’s not your fault.

{Sh^ turns and disappears through the back parlour. The
three in the room remain silent It is as if they were
waiting until she got upstairs before speaking.)

JAMIE {cynically brutal). Another shot in the arm!

EDMUND {angrily). Cut out that kind of talk^

TYRONE. Yes* Hold your foul tongue and your rotten
Broadway loafer’s hngo* Have you no pity or decency?
{Losing his temper.) You ought to be kicked out m the
gutter* But if I did it, you know damned well who’d weep
and plead for you, and excuse you and complain till I let
you come back.

JAMIE {a spasm of pain crosses his face). Chnst, don’t I
know that^ No pity? I have all the pity in the world for
her. I understand what a hard game to beat she’s up
against ™ which is more than you ever have! My hngo
didn’t mean I had no feehng. I was merely putting
bluntly what we all know, and have to hve with now,
again. {Bitterly.) The cures are no damned good except
for a while. The truth is there is no cure and we’ve been
saps to hope — {Cynically.) They never come back!

EDMUND {scornfully parodying kis brother's cymasm). They
never come back! Everything is in the bag! It’s all a

E 65

frame-up! We’re all fall guys and suckers and we can’t
beat the game! {Disdamjully.) Christ, if I felt the way you
do—!

JAMIE {stung for a moment — then shrugging hts shoulders,
dryly). I thought you did Your poetry isn’t very cheery.
Nor the stuff you read and claim you admire. {He indicates
the smart bookcase at rear ) Your pet with the unpronounce-
able name, for example.

EDMUND. Nietzsche. You don’t know what you’re talk-
ing ^bout. You haven’t read him.

JAMIE. Enough to know It’s a lot of bunk!

TYRONE. Shut up, both of you' There’s htde choice
between the philosophy you learned from Broadway
loafers, and the one Edmund got fitim his books They’re
both rotten to the core. You’ve both flouted the faith you
were bom and brought up m — the one tme faith of the
Cathohc Church — and your demal has brought nothing
but self-destruction!

{Hu two sons stare at him contemptuously They forget
timr quarrel and are as one against him on this usue.)

EDMUND. That’s the bunk. Papa'

JAAOE. We don’t pretend, at any rate. {Caustically.) I
don’t notice you’ve worn any holes m the knees of your
pants going to Mass.

TYRONE. It’s true I’m a bad Catholic in the observance,
God forgive me. But I beheve! {Angrily ) And you’re a
liar! I may not go to church but every night and monung
of my life I get on my knees and pray!

EDMUND {bitingly). Did you pray for Mama?

TYRONE. I did. I’ve prayed to God these many years
for her.

66

EDMUND. Then Nietzsche must be nght. {He quotes from
Thus Spake Z°'ratkustra.) “God is dead: of His pity for
man hath God died.”

TYRONE {ignores this) If your mother had prayed, too —
She hasn’t demed her feith, but she’s forgotten it, until
now there’s no strength of the spirit left m her to fight
against her curse {Then dully resigned) But what’s the
good of talk^ We’ve lived with this before and now we
must again. There’s no help for it. {Bitterly.) Only I
wish she hadn’t led me to hope this time. By God, I never
will again!

EDMUND. That’s a rotten thing to say. Papa' {Defiantly.)
Well, I’ll hope' She’s just started. It can’t have got a
hold on her yet. She can stiU stop. I’m gomg to talk to
her.

JAMIE {shrugs his shoulders). You can’t talk to her now.
She’ll hsten but she won’t listen. She’ll be here but she
won’t be here. You know the way she gets.

TYRONE Yes, that’s the way the poison acts on her
always Every day from now on, there’ll be the same
drifting away from us until by the end of each mght —

EDMUND {miserably). Cut it out. Papal {He jumps up
from his chair.) I’m going to get Pressed. {Bitterly, as he
goes.) I’ll make so much noise she can’t suspect I’ve come
to spy on her. {He disappears through the front parlour and can
be heard stamping noisily upstairs.)

JAMIE {cfier a pause). What did Doc Hardy say about
the Kid?

TYRONE {dully). It’s what you thought. He’s got
consumption.

JAMIE. God damn it!

67

TYRONE. There is no possible doubt, he said.

JAMIE. He’ll have to go to a sanatorium.

TYRONE Yes, and the sooner the better, Hardy said, for
him and everyone around him He claims that in six
months to a year Edmund will be cured, if he obeys orders
{He sighs — gloomily and resentfully) I never thought a
child of mine — It doesn’t come from my side of the family
There wasn’t one of us that didn’t have lungs as strong
as an ox.

JAMIE Who gives a damn about that part of it! Where
does Hardy want to send him?

TYRONE. That’s what I’m to see him about.

JAMIE. Well, for God’s sake, pick out a good place and
not some cheap dump*

TYRONE {stung). I’ll send him wherever Hardy thinks
best!

JAMIE. Well, don’t give Hardy your old over-the-hilk-
to-the-poorhouse song about taxes and mortgages.

TYRONE I’m no milhonaire who can throw money
away! Why shouldn’t I teU Hardy the truth?

JAMIE. Because he’ll think you want him to pick a cheap
dump, and because he’ll know it isn’t the truth — especi-
ally if he hears afterwards you’ve seen McGuire and let
that flannel-mouth, gold-brick merchant sting you with
another piece of bum property!

TYRONE {fmously). Keep your nose out of my business!

JAMIE. This is Edmund’s business What I’m afraid of
IS, with your Irish bog-trotter idea that consumption is
fatal, you’ll figure it would be a waste of money to spend
any more than you can help.

68

TYRONE. You liar!

JAMIE All nght. Prove I’m a liar. That’s what I want.
That’s why I brought it up.

TYRONE (Jns rage still smouldering). I have every hope
Edmund will be cured. And keep your dirty tongue off
Ireland! You’re a fine one to sneer, with the map of it on
your face!

JAMIE. Not after I wash my face. {Then before his father
can react to this insult to the Old Sod, he adds dryly, shrugging fas
shoulders.) Well, I’ve said all I have to say. It’s up to you.
{Abruptly ) What do you want me to do this afternoon,
now you’re going uptown? I’ve done all I can do on the
hedge until you cut more of it. You don’t want me to go
ahead with your clippmg, I know that.

TYRONE. No. You’d get it crooked, as you get every-
thing else.

JAMIE. Then I’d better go uptown with Edmund. The
bad news coming on top of what’s happened to Mama
may hit him hard.

TYRONE {forgetting his quarrel). Yes, go with him, Jamie.
Keep up his spints, if you can. {He adds caustically.) If
you can without making it an excuse to get drunk!

JAMIE. What would I use for moneys The last I heard
they were still selling booze, not giving it away, {He starts
for the front-parlour doorwqp.) I’ll get dressed.

{He stops in the doorway as he sees his mother approaching
from the hall, and moves aside to let her come in Her
eyes look brighter, and her manner is more detached.
This change becomes more marked as the scene goes
on.)

69

MARY {vaguely). You haven’t seen my glasses anywhere,
have you, Jamie^

{She doesn’t look at him. He glances away^ ignoring her
question but she doesrCt seem to expect an answer.
She comes forward^ addressing her husband without
looking at him.)

You haven’t seen them, have you, James^

{Behind her Jamie disappears through the front parlour )

TYRONE {turns to look out of the screen door). No, Mary.

MARY. What’s the matter with Jamie^ Have you been
nagging at him agam^ You shouldn’t treat him with such
contempt all the time. He’s not to blame. If he’d been
brought up in a real home, I’m sure he would have been
different. {She comes to the windows at right — lightly.)
You’re not much of a weather prophet, dear See how
hazy It’s getting. I can hardly see the other shore.

TYRONE {trying to speak naturally). Yes, I spoke too soon.
We’re in for another mght of fog, I’m afraid.

MARY. Oh, well, I won’t mind it tomght.

TYRONE. No, I don’t imagine you will, Mary.

MARY {flashes a glance at him — after a pause). I don’t see
Jamie going down to the hedge. Where did he go?

TYRONE. He’s going with Edmund to the Doctor’s. He
went up to change his clothes. {Then^ glad of an excuse to
leave her.) I’d better do the same or I’ll be late for my
appointment at the Club.

{He makes a move toward the front-parlour doorway^ but
with a swift impulsive movement she reaches out and
clasps his arm.)

MARY {a note of pleading in her voice) ^ Don’t go yet, dear.

70

I don’t want to be alone. {Hastily.) I mean, you have
plenty of tune. You know you boast you can dress m one-
tenth the tune it takes the boys. ( Vaguely.) There is some-
thing I wanted to say. What is it^ I’ve forgotten. I’m
glad Jamie is going uptown. You didn’t give him any
money, I hope.

TVRONE. I did not.

MARY. He’d only spend it on drink and you know what
a vile, poisonous tongue he has when he’s drunk Not that
I would mind anything he said tomght, but he always
manages to drive you into a rage, espeaally if you’re
drunk, too, as you will be.

TYRONE {resentjully). I won’t. I never get drunk.

MARY {teasing indifferently). Oh, I’m sure you’ll hold it
well. You always have. It’s hard for a stranger to teU,
but after thirty-five years of marriage —

TYRONE. I’ve never missed a performance in my life.
That’s the proof {Then bitterly.) If I did get drunk it is
not you who should blame me. No man has ever had a
better reason.

MARY. Reasoni* What reason? You always drink too
much when you go to the Club, don’t you? Particularly
when you meet McGuire. He sees to that. Don’t think
I’m finding fault, dear. You must do as you please. I
won’t mmd.

TYRONE. I know you won’t. {He turns toward the Jront
parlour, anxious to escape.) I’ve got to get dressed.

MARY {again she reaches out and grasps his arm — pleadingly ) .
No, please wait a little while, dear. At leasts until one of
the boys comes down. You will all be leavmg me so soon.

TYRONE {mth bitter sadness). It’s you who are leavmg us,
Mary.

71

MARY. I? That’s a Silly thing to say, James How could
I leave? There is nowhere I could go. Who would I go to
see? I have no friends.

TYRONE It’s your own fault — {He stops and sighs help-
lessly —persuasively.) There’s surely one thing you can do
this afternoon that will be good for you, Mary. Take a
dnve in the automobile. Get away from the house. Get
a little sun and fresh air. {Injuredly ) I bought the auto-
mobile for you. You know I don’t hke the damned things.
I’d rather walk any day, or take a trolley. {With growing
resentment ) I had it here waiting for you when you came
back from the sanatonum. I hoped it would give you
pleasure and distract your mind You used to nde in
It every day, but you’ve hardly used it at all lately. I paid
a lot of money I couldn’t afford, and there’s the chauffeur
I have to board and lodge and pay high wages whether
he dnves you or not. {Bitterly ) Waste! The same old
waste that will land me m the poorhouse m my old age'
What good did it do you? I might as well have thrown the
money out of the wmdow.

MARY {mth detached calm). Yes, it was a waste of money,
James. You shouldn’t have bought a secondhand auto-
mobile. You were swindled again as you always are, be-
cause you insist on secondhand bargains in everything.

TYRONE. It’s one of the best makes' Everyone says it’s
better than any of the new ones!

MARY {ignoring this). It was another waste to hire
Smythe, who was only a helper in a garage and had never
been a chauffeur. Oh, I realize his wages eure less than a
real chauffeur’s, but he more than makes up for that, Pm
sure, by the graft he gets from the garage on repair bills.
Something is always wrong. Smythe sees to that, I’m
afraid

TYRONE. I don’t beheve it! He may not be a fancy mil-

72

lionaire's flunkey but he^s honest! YouVe as bad as Jamie,
suspecting everyone!

MARY. You mustn't be oflFended, dear. I wasn't of-
fended when you gave me the automobile I knew you
didn’t mean to humihate me. I knew that was the way
you had to do everything. I was grateful and touched. I
knew buying the car was a hard thing for you to do, and
It proved how much you loved me, in your way, especially
when you couldn’t really beheve it would do me any good.

TYRONE. Mary* {He suddenly hugs her to him — brokenly.)
Dear Mary* For the love of God, for my sake and the
boys’ sake and your own, won’t you stop now?

MARY {stammers in guilty confusion for a second) , I — James!
Please* {Her strange ^ stubborn defence comes back instantly.)
Stop what^ What are you talking about?

{He lets his arm fall to his side brokenly. She impulsively
puts her arm around him )

James* We’ve loved each other! We always will! Let’s
remember only that, and not try to understand what we
cannot understand, or help things that cannot be helped
— the things life has done to us we cannot excuse or
explain.

TYRONE {as if he hadrdt heard — bitterly). You won’t even
try^

MARY {her arms drop hopelessly and she turns away — with de-
tachment). Try to go for a dnve this afternoon, you mean?
Why, yes, if you wish me to, although it makes me feel
lonelier than if I stayed here There is no one I can invite
to drive with me, and I never know where to tell Smythe
to go. If there was a friend’s house where I could drop in
and laugh and gossip awhile. But, of course, there isn’t
There never has been. {Her manner becoming more and more

73

remote.) At the Convent I had so many fhends. Girls
whose fanuhes hved in lovely homes I used to visit them
and they’d visit me m my father’s home But, naturally,
after I married an actor — you know how actors were
considered in those days — a lot of them gave me the cold
shoulder. And then, right after we were married, there
was the scandal of that woman who had been your mis-
tress, smng you. From then on, all my old friends either
pitied me or cut me dead. I hated the ones who cut me
much less than the pitiers.

TYRONE {with guilty resentment). For God’s sake, don’t
dig up what’s long forgotten If you’re that far gone m the
past already, when it’s only the beginning of the afternoon,
what will you be tomght?

MARY {stares at him defiantly now). Come to think of it, I
do have to drive uptown. There’s something I must get at
the drugstore.

TYRONE {bitterly scornful) Leave it to you to have some
of the stuff hidden, and prescnptions for more' I hope
you’ll lay in a good stock ahead so we’U never have another
night like the one when you screeimed for it, and ran out of
the house m your mghtdress half crazy, to try and throw
yourself off the dock!

MARY {tries to Ignore this). I have to get tooth powder
and toilet soap and cold cream — {She breaks downpihably.)
James! You mustn’t remember! You mustn’t humihate
me so!

TYRONE {ashamed). I’m sorry. Forgive me, Mary!

MARY {defensively detached agairi). It doesn’t matter.
Nothing like that ever happened. You must have dreamed
it.

{He stares at her hopelessly. Her voice seems to drift far-
ther and farther away.)

74

I was so healthy before Edmund was bom. You remem-
ber, James. There wasn’t a nerve m my body. Even
travelhng with you season after season, with week after
week of one-mght stands, in trains without Pullmans, in
dirty rooms of filthy hotels, eating bad food, bearmg
children in hotel rooms, I still kept healthy But bearing
Edmund was the last straw. I was so sick afterwards, and
that Ignorant quack of a cheap hotel doctor — All he
knew was I was m pam. It was easy for him to stop the
pam.

TYRONE. Mary! For God’s sake, forget the past'

MARY {mth strange objective calm). Why? How can P
The past is the present, isn’t iP It’s the future, too. We
all try to he out of that but life won’t let us. {Going on) I
blame only myself. I swore after Eugene died I would
never have another baby. I was to blame for his death.
If I hadn’t left him with my mother to join you on the
road, because you wrote telhng me you missed me and
were so lonely, Jamie would never have been allowed,
when he still had measles, to go m the baby’s room. {Her
face hardening.) I’ve always beheved Jamie did it on pur-
pose. He was jealous of the baby. He hated him. {As
Tyrone starts to protest.) Oh, I know Jamie was only seven,
but he was never stupid. He’d been warned it might kill
the baby. He knew. I’ve never been able to forgive him
for that.

TYRONE {mth bitter sadness). Are you back with Eugene
now? Can’t you let our dead baby rest in peace'^

MARY {as if she hadn’t heard him). It was my fault I
should have insisted on staying with Eugene and not have
let you persuade me to join you, just because I loved you.
Above all, I shouldn’t have let you insist I have another
baby to take EugenPs place, because you thought that
would make me forget his death. I knew fi:om experience

75

by then that children should have homes to be born in, if
they are to be good children, and women need homes, if
they are to be good mothers. I was afraid all the time I
earned Edmund. I knew somethmg temble would hap-
pen. I knew I’d proved by the way I’d left Eugene that
I wasn’t worthy to have another baby, and that God
would punish me if I did I never should have borne
Edmund.

TYRONE {with an unea^ glance through the front parlour)
Mary' Be careful with your talk If he heard you he
might think you never wanted him. He’s feehng bad
enough already without —

MARY {violently). It’s a he' I did want him' More than
anything in the world' You don’t understand' I meant,
for his sake. He hzis never been happy. He never will be.
Nor healthy. He was bom nervous and too sensitive, and
that’s my fault And now, ever since he’s been so sick I’ve
kept remembering Eugene and my father and I’ve been
so fiightened and guilty — {Then, catching herself, with an
instate change to stubborn denial ) Oh, I know it’s foohsh to
imagme dreadful thmgs when there’s no reason for it.
After all, everyone has colds and gets over them.

( Tyrone stares at her and sighs helplessly. He turns away
toward the front parlour and sees Edmund coming
down the stairs in the hall.)

TYRONE {sharply, in a low voice). Here’s Edmund. For
God’s saike try and be yourself— at least until he goes!
You can do that much for him'

{He wcats, forcing kts face into a pleasantly paternal ex-
pression. She waits fnghtenedly, seized again by a
nervous panic, her hands fluttering over the bosom of
her dress, up to her throat and hair, mth a distracted
aimlessness. Then, as Edmund approaches the door-
76

way^ she cannot face him She goes swiftly away to
the windows at left and stares out with her back to
the front parlour Edmund enters. He has changed
to a ready-made blue serge suit, high stiff collar and
tie, black shoes.)

( With an actofs heartiness ) Well^ You look spick and span,
I’m on my way up to cliange, too {He starts to pass him.)

EDMUND {dryly). Wait a minute, Papa. I hate to bring
up disagreeable topics, but there’s the matter of carfare.
I’m broke.

TYRONE {starts automatically on a customary lecture). You’ll
always be broke until you learn the value — {Checks himself
guiltily, looking at his son^s sick face with worried pity ) But
you’ve been learning, lad You worked hard before you
took ill You’ve done splendidly. I’m proud of you.

{He pulls out a small roll of bills from ku pants pocket and
carefully selects oru. Edmund takes it. He glances
at it and his face expresses astonishment His father
again reacts customarily — sarcastically.)

Thank you. {He quotes.) *'How sharper than a serpent’s
tooth It is — ”

EDMUND. ‘‘To have a thankless child ” I know. Give
me a chance, Papa. I’m knocked speechless. This isn’t a
dollar. It’s a ten spot

TYRONE {embarrassed by his generosity). Put it in your
pocket. You’ll probably meet some of your friends up-
town and you can’t hold your end up and be sociable with
nothing m your jeans.

EDMUND. You meant It? Gosh, thank you. Papa. {He is
genuinely pleased and grateful for a moment — then he stares at hs
father^ s face mth uneasy suspicion.) But why aU of a sud-
den — ? {Cynical^.) Did Doc Hardy tell you I was going

77

to die^ {Then he sees his father is bitterly hurt.) No! That’s
a rotten crack. I was oi^y kidding. Papa. {He puts an arm
around his father impulsively and gives him an affectionate hug )
I’m very grateful. Honest, Papa

TYRONE {touched^ returns his hug). You’re welcome, lad.

MARY {suddenly turns to them in a confused panic of frightened
anger). I won’t have it* {She stamps her foot) Do you hear,
Edmund! Such morbid nonsense* Saying you’re going
to die* It’s the books you read* Nothing but sadness and
death* Your father shouldn’t allow you to have them.
And some of the poems you’ve written yourself are even
worse* You’d think you didn’t want to hve! A boy of
your age with everything before him* It’s just a pose you
get out of books* You’re not really sick at all!

TYRONE. Mary* Hold your tongue*

MARY {instantly changing to a detached tone). But, James,
it’s absurd of Edmund to be so gloomy and make such a
great to-do about nothing. ( Turning to Edmund but avoiding
his eyes — teasingly affectionate ) Never mind, dear. I’m on
to you. {She comes to him ) You want to be petted and
spoiled and made a fuss over, isn’t that it? You’re still
such a baby.

{She puts her arm around him and hugs him. He remains
rigid and unyielding. Her voice begins to tremble )

But please don’t carry it too far, dear. Don’t say horrible
things I know it’s foohsh to take them seriously, but I
can’t help it. You’ve got me — so frightened.

{She breaks and hides her face on his shoulder^ sobbing.
Edmund is moved in spite of himself He pats her
shoulder xvith an awkward tenderness )

EDMUNB. Don’t, mother {His eyes meet his father^s.)

TYRONE {huskily -- clutching at hopeless hope). Maybe if

78

you asked your mother now what you said you were going
to— {He fumbles Tmfhhts watch.) By God, look at the time!
ril have to shake a leg

{He hurries away through the front parlour Mary lifts her
head. Her manner is again one of detached motherly
solicitude. She seems to have forgotten the tears which
are still in her eyes )

MARY How do you feel, dear^ {She feels his forehead.)
Your head is a httle hot, but thaf s just from going out in
the sun You look ever so much better than you did this
mormng. {Taking his hand.) Come and sit down. You
mustn’t stand on your feet so much You must leam to
husband your strength {She gets him to sit and she sits side^
ways on the arm of his chair ^ an arm around his shoulder^ so he
cannot meet her eyes.)

EDMUND {starts to blurt out the appeal he now feels is quite
hopeless). Listen, Mama —

MARY {interrupting quickly). Now, now! Don’t talk.
Lean back and rest. {Persuasively.) You know, I think it
would be much better for you if you stayed home this
afternoon and let me take care of you. It’s such a tiring
trip uptown in the dirty old trolley on a hot day like this.
I’m sure you’d be much better off here with me.

EDMUND {dully). You foiget I have an appomtment with
Hardy. {Trying again to get his appeal started.) Listen,
Mama —

MARY {quickly). You can telephone and say you don’t
feel well enough. {Excitedly ) It’s simply a waste of time
and money seeing lum. He’ll only tell you some he. He’ll
pretend he’s found something serious the matter because
that’s his bread and butter. {She gives a hard sneering little
laugh.) The old idiot* All he knows about medicine is to
look solemn and preach will-powerl

79

{trying to catch her eyes). Mama' Please listen' I
want to ask you something' You — you’re only just
started. You can still stop. You’ve got the will-power!
We’U all help you. I’ll do anything' Won’t you, Mama'*

MARY {stammers pleadingly). Please don’t — talk about
things you don’t understand'

EDMUND {dully). All right, I give up I knew it was no
use.

MARY {in blank denial now). Anyway, I don’t know what
you’re referring to. But I do know you should be the last
one — Right after I returned from the sanatonum, you
began to be ill. The doctor there had warned me I must
have peace at home with nothmg to upset me, and all I’ve
done is worry about you ( Then distractedly ) But that’s no
excuse' I’m only trying to explain It’s not an excuse'
{She hugs him to her — pleadingly ) Promise me, dear, you
won’t beheve I made you an excuse.

EDMUND {bitterly). What else can I beheve'*

MARY {slowly takes her arm away — her manner remote and
objective again). Yes, I suppose you can’t help suspecting
that.

EDMUND {ashamed but still bitter). What do you expect'*

MARY. Nothing, I don’t blame you. How could you be-
heve me — when I can’t beheve myself? I’ve become such
a har. I never hed about anythmg once upon a time.
Now I have to he, especially to myself. But how can you
understand, when I don’t myself. I’ve never understood
anything about it, except that one day long ago I found I
could no longer call my soul my own {She pauses — then
lowering her voice to a strange tone of whispered confidence.) But
some day, dear, I will find it again — some day when
you’re all well, and I see you healthy and happy and suc-
cessful, and I don’t have to feel guilty any more — some

8o

day when the Blessed Virgin Mary forgives me and gives
me back the faith in Her love and pity I used to have in
my convent days, and I can pray to Her again — when
She sees no one in the world can beheve in me even for a
moment any more, then She will beheve in me, and with
Her help it will be so easy. I will hear myself scream with
agony, and at the same time I will laugh because I will be
so sure of myself. ( Then as Edmund remains hopelessly silent,
she adds sadly ) Of course, you can’t believe that, either.
{She rises from the arm of his chair and goes to stare out of the xmn*
dows at right with her back to him — casually ) Now I think
of it, you might as well go uptown I forgot I’m taking
a drive. I have to go to the drugstore You would hardly
want to go there with me. You’d be so ashamed.

EDMUND {brokenly). Mama* Don’t*

MARY. I suppose you’ll divide that ten dollars your
father gave you with Jamie. You always divide with each
other, don’t you^ Like good sports. Well, I know what
he’ll do with his share Get drunk someplace where he
can be with the only kind of woman he understands or
likes. {She turns to him, pleading fnghtenedly.) Edmund!
Promise me you won’t dnnk* It’s so dangerous! You
know Doctor Hardy told you —

EDMUND {bitterly). I thought he was an old idiot.

MARY {piUfally). Edmund!

{Jamie^s voice is heard from the front hall, Gome on,
Ead, let’s beat it. Marfs manner at once be-
comes detached again )

Go on, Edmimd. Jamie’s waiting. {She goes to the front-
parlour doorway.) There comes your father downstairs, too*

{Tyrone* s voice calls. Come on, Edmund.)

MARY {Jiisses him with detached affection). Goodbye, dear.

F 8z

If you’re coming home for dinner, try not to be late. And
tell your father. You know what Bridget is.

{He turns and hurries away. Tyrone calls from the hall^
Goodbye, Mary, and then Jamie^ Goodbye,
Mama. She calls back,)

Goodbye.

{The front screen door is heard closing after them. She
comes and stands by the table^ one hand drumming
on ity the other fluttering up to pat her hair. She
stares about the room with frightened^ forsaken eyes
and whispers to herself)

It’s so lonely here. {Then her face hardens into bitter self
contempt.) You’re lying to yourself again. You wanted to
get nd of them. Their contempt and disgust aren’t
pleasant company You’re glad they’re gone {She gives a
little despairing laugh ) Then Mother of God, why do I feel
so lonely?

Curtain.

82

ACT THREE

SCENE. The same. It is aromdhalf~past six in the evening. Dusk
ts gathering in the living-room^ an early dusk due to the fog
which has rolled in from the Sound and is like a white cur-
tain drawn down outside the windows. From a lighthouse
beyond the harbours mouthy a foghorn is heard at regular in-
tervals^ moaning like a mournful whale in labour ^ and from
the harbour itself^ intermittently^ comes the warning ringing
of bells on yachts at anchor

The tray with the bottle of whiskey ^ glasses, and pitcher of
ice water is on the table, as it was in the pre-luncheon scene
of the previous act.

Mary and the second girl, Cathleen, are ducovered. The
latter is standing at left of table. She holds an empty whiskey
glass in her hand as ifshe^d forgotten she had it. She shows
the effects of drink. Her stupid, good-humoured face wears a
pleased and flattered simper

Mary is paler than before and her eyes shine with unnatural
bnlhance. The strange detachment in her manner has in-
tensified. She has Mdden deeper within herself and found
refuge and release in a dream where present reality is but an
appearance to be accepted and dismissed unfeelingly ~ even
xmthahardcynicism — or entirely ignored. There is at times
an uncanny gay, free youthfidness in her manner, as f in
spint she were released to become again, simply and without
self-consciousness, the naive, happy, chattering schoolgirl of
her convent days. She wears the dress into which she had
changed for her drive to town, a simple, fairly expensive
affair, which would he extremely becoming if it were not
for the careless, almost slovenly wcy she wears it. Her hair
u no longer fastidiously in place. It has a slightly dis-
hevelled, lopsided look. She talks to Cathleen with a corfldmg

83

famihanty, as if the second girl were an old, intimate friend.
As the curtain nses, she is standing by the screen door look-
ing out A moan of the foghorn is heard.

MARY {amused— girlishly). That foghorn! Isn’t it awful,
Cathleen?

CATHLEEN {talks more familiarly than usual but never mth in-
tentional impertinence because she sincerely likes her mistress). It
IS indeed. Ma’am. It’s hke a banshee.

MARY {goes on as if she hadn't heard. In nearly all the follow-
ing dialogue there is the feeling that she has Cathleen mth her
merely as an excuse to keep talking). I don’t mind it tonight
Last night it drove me crazy. I lay awake worrying until
I couldn’t stand it any more.

CATHLEEN. Bad ccss to it. I was scared out of my wits
ndmg back from town. I thought that ugly monkey,
Smythe, would drive us in a ditch or against a tree. You
couldn’t see your hand in front of you I’m glad you had
me sit in back with you. Ma’am If I’d been in front with
that monkey — He can’t keep his dirty hands to himself.
Give him half a chance and he’s pinching me on the leg
or you-know-where — asking your pardon. Ma’am, but
it’s true.

MARY {dreamily). It wasn’t the fog I minded, Cathleen.
I really love fog.

CATHLEEN. They say it’s good for the complexion.

MARY. It hides you from the world and the world from
you. You feel that everything has changed, and nothmg
IS what it seemed to be. No one can find or touch you any
more.

CATHLEEN. I Wouldn’t care so much if Smythe was a
fine, handsome man hke some chauffeurs I’ve seen — I
mean, if it was aU m fun, for I’m a decent girl. But fiir a

84

shrivelled runt hke Smythe — ! I’ve told him, you must
think I’m hard up that I’d notice a monkey hke you I’ve
warned him, one day I’ll give him a clout that’ll knock
him mto next week. And so I will*

MARY, It’s the foghorn I hate. It won’t let you alone.
It keeps reminding you, and warning you, and calling you
back. {She smiles strangely,) But it can’t tomght. It’s just
an ugly sound. It doesn’t remind me of anything. {She
gives a teasings girlish laugh,) Except, perhaps, Mr. Tyrone’s
snores. I’ve always had such fon teasing him about it.
He has snored ever since I can remember, espeaally when
he’s had too much to drink, and yet he’s like a child, he
hates to adnut it. {She laughs^ coming to the table,) Well, I
suppose I snore at times, too, and I don’t like to admit it.
So I have no nght to make fun of him, have I^ {She sits in
the rocker at nght of table,)

CATHLEEN. Ah, sure, everybody healthy snores. It’s a
sign of samty, they say. ( Then^ womedly.) What time is it,
Ma’am^ I ought to go back in the kitchen. The damp is
in Bridget’s rheumatism and she’s hke a raging dml
She’ll bite my head off. {She puts her glass on the table and
makes a movement toward the back parlour,)

MARY {with a flash of apprehension). No, don’t go, Cath-
leen. I don’t want to be alone, yet.

CATHLEEN. You won’t be for long. The Master and the
boys will be home soon.

MARY. I doubt if they’ll come back for dinner. They
have too good an excuse to remain in the bar-rooms where
they feel at home.

{Cathleen stared at her^ stupidly puzzled, Mary goes on
smilingly,)

Don’t worry about Bridget. I’ll tell her I kept you with

85

me, and you can take a big drink of whiskey to her when
you go. She won’t mind then.

CATHLEEN {grins — at her ease again) . No, Ma’am. That’s
the one thmg can make her cheerful. She loves her drop

MARY. Have another drink yourself, if you wish,
Cathleen.

CATHLEEN. I don’t know if I’d better. Ma’am. I can
feel what I’ve had already. {Reaching for the bottle.) Well,
maybe one more won’t harm. {She pours a dnnk ) Here’s
your good health. Ma’am. {She drinks without bothering
about a chaser.)

MARY {dreamily). I really did have good health once,
Cathleen. But that was long ago.

CATHLEEN {worned again). The Master’s sure to notice
what’s gone from the bottle. He has the eye of a hawk for
that.

MARY {amusedly). Oh, we’ll play Jamie’s trick on him.
Just measure a few dnnks of water and pour them in.

CATHLEEN {does this — with a silly giggle). God save me,
it’ll be half water. He’ll know by the taste.

MARY {indifferently) . No, by the time he comes home he’ll
be too drunk to tell the difference. He has such a good
excuse, he beheves, to drown his sorrows.

CATHLEEN {philosophically). Well, it’s a good man’s fail-
ing. I wouldn’t give a trauneen for a teetotaller. They’ve
no high spirits. {JTien, stupidly puzzled.) Good excuse^
You mean Master Edmund, Ma’am? I can tell the Mas-
ter is worried about him.

MARY {stiffens defensively — but in a strange way the reaction
has a mechamcal quality, as fit did not penetrate to real emotion).

86

Don’t be silly, Gathleen Why should he be? A touch of
grippe IS notlung. And Mr. Tyrone never is worried about
any^ng, except money and property and the fear he’ll
end his days m poverty. I mean, deeply worned. Be-
cause he cannot really understand anything else. {She
gives a little laugh of detached^ affectionate amusement) My
husband is a very pecuhar man, Gathleen.

CATHLEEN {vuguely rescntfuT). Well, he’s a fine, hand-
some, kind gentleman just the same, Ma’am. Never nund
his weakness.

MARY. Oh, I don’t mind I’ve loved him dearly for
thirty-six years That proves I know he’s lovable at heart
and can’t help being what he is, doesn’t it?

OKTmsE'm {hazily reassured). That’s right. Ma’am. Love
him dearly, for any fool can see he worships the ground
you walk on. {Fighting the effect of her last drink and trying
to be soberly conversational ) Speaking of acting, Ma’am,
how is it you never went on ^e stage?

MARY {resentfully). What put that absurd notion in
your head? I was brought up in a respectable home and
educated in the best convent in the Middle West. Before
I met Mr. Tyrone I hardly knew there was such a thing
as a theatre. I was a very pious girl. I even dreamed of
becoming a nun. I’ve never had the shghtest desire to be
an actress.

CATHLEEN {bluntly). Well, I can’t imagine you a holy
nun, Ma’am. Sure, you never darken the door of a
church, God forgive you.

MARY {ignores this). I’ve never felt at home in the
theatre. Even though Mr. Tyrone has made me go with
him on all his tours, I’ve had httle to do with the people
in his company, or with anyone on the stage. Not that I
have anything against them. They have always been kind

87

to me, and I to them. But I’ve never felt at home widi
them. Their hfe is not my life. It has always stood be-
tween me and — {She gets up — abruptly ) But let’s not
talk of old thmgs that couldn’t be helped. {She goes to the
porch door and stares out.) How thick the fog is I can’t see
the road All the people in the world could pass by and I
would never know. I wish it was always that way. It’s
getting dark already It will soon be night, thank good-
ness. {She turns back — vaguely ) It was kind of you to keep
me company this afternoon, Cathleen. I would have been
lonely driving uptown alone.

CATHLEEN. SuTC, Wouldn’t I rather ride m a fine auto-
mobile than stay here and hsten to Bridget’s hes about her
relations^ It was hke a vacation, Ma’am {She pomes —
then stupidly.) There was only one thing I didn’t hke.

MARY {vaguely) What was that, Cathleen'*

CATHLEEN. The way the man m the drugstore acted
when I took in the prescription for you. {Indignantly) The
impidence of him!

MARY {with stubborn blankness) What are you talking
about? What drugstore^ What prescnption^ {Then
hastily, as Cathleen stares in stupid amazement.) Oh, of course,
I’d forgotten. The medicme for the rheumatism in my
hands. What did the man say^ {Then with indifference.)
Not that It matters, as long as he filled the prescnption.

CATHLEEN It mattered to me, then' I’m not used to
being treated hke a thief. He gave me a long look and says
insultingly, “Where did you get hold of this?” and I says,
“It’s none of your damned business, but if you must know,
it’s for the lady I work for, Mrs. Tyrone, who’s sitting out
in the automobile.” That shut him up quick. He gave a
look out at you and said, “Oh,” and went to get the
medicine.

88

MARY {vaguely). Yes, he knows me. {She sits in the arm-
chair at right rear of table. She adds in a calm^ detached voice.)
I have to take it because there is no other that can stop the
pain — all the pain — I mean, in my hands. {She raises her
hands and regards them with melancholy sympathy. There is no
tremor in them now.) Poor hands* You*d never believe it,
but they were once one of my good points, along with my
hair and eyes, and I had a fine figure, too {Her tone has
become more and more far-ojf and dreamy) They were a
musician’s hands. I used to love the piano. I worked so
hard at my music in the Convent — if you can call it work
when you do something you love. Mother Ehzabeth and
my music teacher both said I had more talent than any
student they remembered. My father paid for special
lessons. He spoiled me. He would do anything I asked.
He would have sent me to Europe to study after I gradu-
ated firom the Convent. I might have gone — if I hadn’t
fallen in love with Mr. Tyrone. Or I might have become
a nun. I had two dreams. To be a nun, that was the more
beautiful one. To become a concert piamst, that was the
other.

{She pauses j regarding her hands fixedly. Cathleen blinks
her eyes to fight off drowsiness and a tipsy feeling.)

I haven’t touched a piano in so many years. I couldn’t
play with such crippled fingers, even if I wanted to. For
a time after my mamage I tned to keep up my music.
But it was hopeless. One-night stands, cheap hotels, dirty
trains, bearing children, never having a home— {She
stares at her hands with fascinated disgust ) See, Cathleen,
how ugly they are! So maimed and crippled! You would
think they’d been through some homble accident! {She
gives a strange little laugh.) So they have, come to think of it.
{She suddenly thrusts her hands behind her back.) I won’t look
at them. They’re worse than the foghorn for reminding
me— {Then xmthdefimt self assurance.) But even they can’t

89

touch me now. {She brings her hands from behind her back and
deliberately stares at them — calmly.) They’re far away. I
see them, but the pam has gone.

CATHLEEN {stupidly puzded). You’ve taken some of the
medicine^ It made you act funny. Ma’am. If I didn’t
know better, I’d think you’d a drop taken.

MARY {dreamily). It kdls the pam. You go back until at
last you are beyond its reach. Only the past when you
were happy is real {She pauses — then as f her words had
been an evocation which called back happiness she changes in her
whole manner and facial expression She looks younger There is
a quality of an innocent convent girl about her, and she smiles
shyly ) If you think Mr. Tyrone is handsome now, Cath-
leen, you should have seen him when I first met him He
had the reputation of bemg one of the best-lookmg men
in the country. The girls in the Convent who had seen
him act, or seen his photographs, used to rave about him
He was a great matinee idol then, you know. Women
used to wait at the stage door just to see him come out
You can imagine how exated I was, when my father
wrote me he and James Tyrone had become friends, and
that I was to meet him when I came home for Easter
vacation. I showed the letter to all the girls, and how
envious they were' My father took me to see him at
first. It was a play about the French Revolution and the
leading part was a nobleman I couldn’t take my eyes off
him. I wept when he was thrown in prison — and then
was so mad at myself because I was afraid my eyes and
nose would be red. My father had said we’d go backstage
to his dressing-room nght after the play, and so we did.
{She gives a little excited, shy laugh ) I was so bashful all I
could do was stammer and blush hke a httle fool. But he
didn’t seem to think I was a fool. I know he liked me the
first mcmient we were introduced. {Coquettishly ) I guess
my eyes and nose couldn’t have been red, after aU. I was

90

really very pretty then, Cathleen. And he was handsonaer
than my wildest dream, m his make-up and his noble-
man’s costume that was so becommg to him. He was
different from all ordinary men, like someone from an-
other world. At the same time he was simple, and kind,
and unassuming, not a bit stuck-up or vain. I fell m love
nght then. So did he, he told me afterwards I forgot all
about becoming a nun or a concert pianist. All I wanted
was to be his wife. {She pauses, storing before her with un-
naturally bright, dreamy eyes, and a rapt, tender, girlish smile.)
Thirty-six years ago, but I can see it as clearly as if it were
tomght' We’ve loved each other ever since. And in all
those thirty-six years, there has never been a breath of
scandal about him. I mean, with any other woman.
Never smce he met me That has made me very happy,
Cathleen. It has made me forgive so many other things.

CATHLEEN (fighting tipsy drowsiness — sentimentally). He’s
a fine gentleman and you’re a lucky woman. (Tfwn,
fidgeting.) Can I take the drink to Bridget, Ma’am^ It
must be near dinner-time and I ought to be m the kitchen
helping her. If she don’t get something to quiet her tem-
per, she’ll be after me with the cleaver.

MARY (mth a vague exasperation at being brought back from
her dream). Yes, yes, go. I don’t need you now.

CATHLEEN (with relief). Thank you. Ma’am. (She pours
out a big drink and starts for the back parlour with it.) You
won’t be alone long. The Master and the boys —

MARY (impatiently). No, no, they won’t come. Tell Brid-
get I won’t wait. You can serve dinner promptly at half-
past SIX. I’m not hungry but I’ll sit at the table and we’ll
get It over with.

CATHLEEN. You Ought to eat something. Ma’am. It’s
a queer medicine if it t£^€s away your appetite.

91

MARY {has begun to dnft into dreams again — reacts mechanic-
ally). What medicine? I don’t know what you mean. {In
dismissal.) You better take the dnnk to Bridget.

CATHLEEN. Yes, Ma’am.

{She disappears through the back parlour, Mary waits
until she hears the pantry door close behind her. Then
she settles back in relaxed dreaminess^ staring fixedly
at nothing Her arms rest limply along the arms of
the chair ^ her hands with long, warped, swollen-
knuckled, sensitive fingers drooping in complete calm
It IS growing dark in the room There is a pause of
dead quiet. Then from the world outside comes the
melancholy moan of the foghorn, followed by a chorus
of bells, muffled by the fog, from the anchored craft
in the harbour. Marfs face gives no sign she has
heard, but her hands jerk and the fingers automatic-
ally play for a moment on the air She frowns and
shakes her head mechanically as if a fly had walked
across her mind. She suddenly loses all the girlish
quality and u an ageing, cynically sad, embittered
woman )

MARY {bitterly). You’re a sentimental fool. What is so
wonderful about that first meeting between a silly roman-
tic schoolgirl and a matinee idoP You were much happier
before you knew he existed, in the Convent when you
used to pray to the Blessed Virgin. {Longingly ) If I could
only find the faith I lost, so I could pray again! {She
pauses — then begins to recite the Hail Mary in a fiat, empty tone.)
*‘Hail, Mary, foil of grace! the Lord is with Thee; blessed
art Thou among women.” {Sneeringly.) You expect the
Blessed Virgin to be fooled by a lying dope fiend reciting
words ^ You can’t hide from Her^ {She springs to her feet.
Her hands fly up to pat her hair distractedly.) I must go up-
stairs. I haven’t taken enough. When you start again
you never know exactly how much you need. {She goes

9 ^

toward the front parlour — then stops in the doorway as she hears
the sound of voices from the front path. She starts guiltily.) That
must be Aem — {She hurries back to sit down. Her fau sets in
stubborn defensiveness — resentfully.) Why are they coming
back^ They don’t want to And I’d much rather be alone.
{Suddenly her whole manner changes. She becomes pathetically re-
lieved and eager ) Oh, I’m so glad they’ve come! I’ve been
so horribly lonely!

( The front door is heard closing and Tyrone calls uneasily
from the hall.)

TYRONE. Are you there, Mary?

{The light in the hall is turned on and shines through the
front parlour to fall on Mary )

MARY {rises from her chair ^ her face lighting up lovingly — with
excited eagerness). I’m here, dear. In the hving-room. I’ve
been waiting for you.

{Tyrone comes in through the front parlour Edmund is
behind him. Tyrone has had a lot to dnnk but beyond
a slightly glazed look in his eyes and a trace of blur
in his speech^ he does not show it. Edmund has also
had more than a few dnnks without much apparent
effect^ except that his sunken cheeks are fushed and
kts eyes look bright and feverish. Th^ stop in the
doorway to stare appraisingly at her What th^ see
fulfils their worst expectations. But for the moment
Mary is unconsmus of thar condemning ^es. She
kisses her husband and then Edmund. Her manner is
unnaturally efiiisive. Th^ submit shnnkingly. She
talks exatedly.)

I’m so happy you’ve come. I had given up hope. I was
afraid you wouldn’t come home. It’s such a dismal, foggy
evening It must be much more cheerful in the bar-room^
uptown, where there are people you can taUc and joke

93

with. No, don’t deny it. I know how you feel. I don’t
blame you a bit. I’m all the more gratefiil to you for com-
ing home. I was sitting here so lonely and blue. Come
and sit down,

{She sits at left rear of table, Edmund at left of table, and
Tyrone in the rocker at right of it.)

Dinner won’t be ready for a imnute. You’re actually a
htde early. WiU wonders never cease^ Here’s the whiskey,
dear. Shall I pour a dnnk for you'^ {Without waiting for a
reply she does so.) And you, Edmund? I don’t want to
encourage you, but one before dinner, as an appetizer,
can’t do any harm.

{She pours a drwk for him. They make no move to take
the dnnks. She talks on as if unaware of their silence.)

Where’s Jamie’ But, of course, he’ll never come home so
long as he has the price of a dnnk left. {She reaches out and
clasps her husband's hand — sadly.) I’m afrmd Jamie has
been lost to us for a long time, dear. {Her face hardens )
But we mustn’t allow him to drag Edmund down with
him, as he’s hke to do. He’s jealous because Edmund has
always been the baby — just as he used to be of Eugene.
He’ll never be content until he makes Edmund as hope-
less a failure as he is.

EDMUND {miserab^). Stop talkmg. Mama.

TYRONE {dully). Yes, Mary, the less you say now —
{Then to Edmund, a bit tipsily.) All the same there’s truth
in your mother’s warmng. Beware of that brother of yours,
or he’ll poison life for you with his damned sneenng ser-
pent’s tongue!

EDMUND {as before). Oh, cut it out. Papa.

MARY {goes on as if nothing had been said). It’s hard to be-
heve, seeing Jamie as he is now, that he was ever my baby.

94

Do you remember what a healthy, happy baby he was,
James? The one-mght stands and filthy trams and cheap
hotels and bad food never made him cross or sick. He
was always smihng or laughmg He hardly ever cried.
Eugene was the same, too, happy and healthy, dunng the
two years he hved before I let him die through my
neglect.

TYRONE. Oh, for the love of Gk)d I I’m a fool for coming
home!

EDMUND, Papa' Shut up'

MARY {smiles with detached tenderness at Edmund). It was
Edmimd who was the crosspatch when he was htde, always
gettmg upset and fiightened about nothing at all {She
pats his hand — teasingly ) Everyone used to say, dear,
you’d cry at the drop of a hat.

EDMUND {cannot control hxs bitterness). Maybe I guessed
there was a good reason not to laugh.

TYRONE {reproving and pitying). Now, now, lad. You
know better dian to pay attention —

MARY {as if she haddt heard — sadly again). Who would
have thought Jamie would grow up to disgrace us. You
remember, James, for years after he went to boardmg
school, we received such glowing reports Everyone liked
him. All his teachers told us what a fine brain he had, and
how easily he learned his lessons. Even after he began to
drink jind they had to expel him, they wrote us how sorry
they were, because he was so likeable and such a brilliant
student. They predicted a wonderful future for him if he
would only learn to take life seriously. {She pauses — then
adds with a strange, sad detachment ) It’s such a pity. Poor
Jamie! It’s h2ird to imderstand — {Abruptly a charge comes
over her. Her face hardens and she stares at her husband with
accusing hoshlity.) No, it isn’t at aU. You brought him up

95

to be a boozer. Since he first opened his eyes, he’s seen
you dnnking Always a bottle on the bureau m the cheap
hotel rooms! And if he had a mghtmare when he was
httle, or a stomach-ache, your remedy was to give him a
teaspoonful of whiskey to qmet him.

TYRONE {stung). So I’m to blame because that lazy
hulk has made a drunken loafer of himself? Is that what
I came home to hsten to^ I might have known! When
you have the poison m you, you want to blame everyone
but yourself!

EDMUND, Papa' You told me not to pay attention
{Then, resentfallj ) Anyway it’s true You did the same
dung with me. I can remember that tcaspoonful of booze
every time I woke up with a mghtmare.

MARY {in a detached reminiscent tone). Yes, you were con-
tinually having mghtmares as a child You were bom
afiraid. Because I was so afiraid to bring you into the
world. {She pauses — then goes on with the same detachment )
Please don’t think I blame your father, Edmund. He
didn’t know any better. He never went to school after he
was ten His people were the most ignorant kind of
poverty-stricken Insh. I’m sure they honestiy beheved
whiskey is the healthiest mediane for a child who is sick
or fiightened.

( Tyrone is about to burst out in angry defence of his family
but Edmund intervenes.)

EDMUND {sharply) Papa' {Changing the subject.) Are we
gomg to have this dnnk, or aren’t we^

TYV-om. {controlling himself — dully). You’re right. I’m
a fool to take notice. {He puks up his glass listlessly.) Drink
hearty, lad.

{Edmund dnnks but Tyrone remains staring at the glass in
his hand Edmund at once realizfis how much the

96

whiskey has been watered He frowns^ glancing
from the bottle to jus mother — starts to say some-
thing but stops.)

MARY (in a changed tone’— repentantly). I’m sorry if I
sounded bitter, James. I’m not. It’s all so far away. But
I did feel a little hurt when you wished you hadn’t come
home. I was so reheved and happy when you came, and
grateful to you. It’s very dreary and sad to be here alone
in the fog with mght falling.

TYRONE [moved). I’m glad I came, Mary, when you act
like your real self.

MARY. I was so lonesome I kept Cathleen with me just
to have someone to talk to. [Her manner and quality drift
back to the shy convent girl again ) Do you know what I was
telhng her, dear^ About the mght my father took me to
your dressing-room and I first fell in love with you. Do
you remember?

TYRONE [deeply moved— his voice husky). Can you think
I’d ever forget, Mary?

[Edmund looks away from them^ sad and embarrassed.)

MARY [tenderly). No. I know you still love me, James, in
spite of everythmg.

TYRONE [his face works and he blinks back tears — with quiet
intensity). Yesi As Gk)d is my judge! Always and for ever,
Mary!

MARY. And I love you, dear, in spite of everything.

[There is a pause in which Edmund moves embarrassedly.
The strange detachment comes over her manner again
as f she were speaking impersonally of people seen
from a distance.)

But I must confess, James, although I couldn’t help loving

G 97

you, I would never have mamed you if I’d known you
drank so much. I remember the first night your bar-room
fhends had to help you up to the door of our hotel room,
and knocked and then ran away before I came to the door.
We were stdl on our honeymoon, do you remember^

TVRONE {mth guilty vehemence) I don’t remember' It
wasn’t on our honeymoon' And I never m my hfe had to
be helped to bed, or missed a performance'

MARY [as though he hadiit spoken). I had waited m that
ugly hotel room hour after hour. I kept making excuses
for you. I told myself it must be some business connected
with the theatre I knew so httle about the theatre. Then
I became terrified. I imagined all sorts of homble acci-
dents. I got on my knees and prayed that nothing had
happened to you — and then they brought you up and
left you outside the door. [She gives a little, sad sigh.) I
didn’t know how often that was to happen in the years to
come, how many times I was to wait in ugly hotel rooms.
I became qmte used to it.

EDMUND [bursts out with a look of accusing hate at his father).
Christ' No wonder—' [He controls himself — gruffly.)
When IS dinner. Mama-’ It must be time.

TYRONE [overwhelmed by shame which he tries to hide, fumbles
with his watch). Yes. It must be. Let’s see. [He stares at his
watch without seeing it. Pleadingly.) Mary! Can’t you
forget — ?

MARY [with detached pity). No, dear. But I forgive. I
always forgive you. So don’t look so guilty I’m sorry I
remembered out loud. I don’t want to be sad, or to m^e
you sad. I want to remember only the happy part of the
past. [Her manner drifts back to the sly, gay convent girl.) Do
you remember our wedding, dear^ I’m sure you’ve com-
pletely forgotten what my weddmg gown looked like.

98

Men don’t notice such things. They don’t think they’re
important. But it was important to me, I can tell you!
How I fiissed and worried' I was so excited and happy!
My father told me to buy anythmg I wanted and never
mind what it cost. The best is none too good, he said
I’m afraid he spoiled me dreadfully. My mother didn’t.
She was very pious and strict I think she was a httle
jealous She didn’t approve of my marrying — especially
an actor. I think she hoped I would become a nun She
used to scold my father. She’d grumble, “You never tell
me, never mind what it costs, when I buy anythmg'
You’ve spoiled that girl so, I pity her husband if she ever
marries. She’ll expect him to give her the moon. She’ll
never make a good wife ’’ {She laughs affectionately.) Poor
mother! {She smiles at Tyrone mth a strange, incongruous
coquetry ) But she was mistaken, wasn’t she, James? I
haven’t been such a bad wife, have I?

TYRONE {huskily, trying to force a smile). I’m not com-
plaining, Mary.

MARY {a shadow of vague guilt crosses her face). At least,
I’ve loved you dearly, and done the best I could — under
the circumstances. ( The shadow vanishes and her shy, girlish
expression returns.) That wedding gown was nearly the
death of me and the dressmaker, too! {She laughs.) I was
so particular. It was never quite good enough. At last
she said she refused to touch it any more or she might spoil
It, and I made her leave so I could be alone to esamme
myself in the mirror. I was so pleased and vain. I thought
to myself, “Even if your nose and mouth and ears are a
tnfle too large, your eyes and hair and figure, and your
hands, make up for it. You’re just as pretty as any actress
he’s ever met, and you don’t have to use paint.’’ {She
pauses, vmnklmg her brow in an effort of memory.) Where is
my wedding gown now, I wonder? I kq>t it wrapped up
m tissue paper m my trunk. I used to hope I wtmld have

99

a daughter and when it came time for her to marry —
She couldn’t have bought a loveher gown, and I knew,
James, you’d never tell her, never mind the cost. You’d
want her to pick up something at a bargain. It was made
of soft, shimmenng satin, tnmmed with wonderful old
duchesse lace, in tiny ruffles around the neck and sleeves,
and worked in with the folds that were draped round in a
bustle effect at the back. The basque was boned and very
tight. I remember I held my breath when it was fitted, so
my waist would be as small as possible. My father even
let me have duchesse lace on my white satin shppers, and
lace with the orange blossoms m my veil. Oh, how I loved
that gown* It was so beautiful I Where is it now, I won-
der? I used to take it out from time to time when I was
lonely, but it always made me cry, so finally a long while
ago — {She wrinkles her forehead again ) I wonder where I
hid it^ Probably in one of the old trunks in the attic.
Some day I’ll have to look.

{She stops, staring before her. Tyrone sighs, shaking his
head hopelessly, and attempts to catch his son^s eye,
looking for sympathy, but Edmund ts staring at the
fioor.)

TYRONE {forces a casual tone). Isn’t it dinner time, dear^
{With a feeble attempt at teasing ) You’re for ever scolding
me for being late, but now I’m on time for once, it’s dinner
that’s late. {She doesrit appear to hear hm. He adds, still
pleasantly.) Well, if I can’t eat yet, I can dnnk. I’d for-
gotten I had this.

{He dnnks hu dnnk. Edmund watches him. Tyrone
scowls and looks at his wife with sharp suspicion —
roughly.)

Who’s been tampering with my whiskey? The damned
stuff is half water! Jamie’s been away and he wouldn’t
overdo his tnck like this, anyway. Any fool could tell —

zoo

Mary, answer me! (WztA angry disgust^ I hope to God
you haven’t taken to dnnk on top of —

EDMUND. Shut up, Papa! (T^ his mother^ without looking
at her.) You treated Cathleen and Bridget, isn’t that it,
Mama^

MARY {with indifferent casualness). Yes, of course. They
work hard for poor wages And I’m the housekeeper, I
have to keep them from leaving. Besides, I wanted to
treat Cathleen because I had her dnve uptown with me,
and sent her to get my prescription filled.

EDMUND. For God’s sake. Mama! You can’t trust her!
Do you want everyone on earth to know?

MARY {her face hardening stubbornly). Know what^ That
I suflfer from rheumatism in my hands and have to take
mediane to kill the pam^ Why should I be ashamed of
that? {Turns on Edmund with a hard^ accusing antagonism---
almost a revengeful enmity ) I never knew what rheumatism
was before you were bom* Ask your father!

{Edmund looks away^ shrinking into himself)

TYRONE. Don’t mind her, lad. It doesn’t mean any-
thing. When she gets to the stage where she gives the old
crazy excuse about her hands she’s gone far away from us.

MARY {turns on him — mth a strangely triumphant^ taunting
smile), I’m glad you reahze that, James! Now perhap®
you’ll give up trying to remind me, you and Edmund!
{Abruptly, in a detached, matter-offact tone,) Why don’t you
light the hght, James? It’s getting dark. I know you hate
to, but Edmund has proved to you that one bulb burning
doesn’t cost much. There’s no sense letting your fear of
the poorhouse make you too stingy.

TYRONE {reacts mechanically), I never claimed cme bulb
cost much! It’s having them on, one here and one

101

that makes the Electric Light Company rich {He gets up
and turns on the reading lamp — roughly.) But I’m a fool to
talk reason to you {To Edmund ) Til get a fresh bottle of
whiskey, lad, and we’ll have a real dnnk. {He goes through
the back parlour )

MARY {with detached amusement). He’ll sneak around to
the outside cellar door so the servants won’t see him. He’s
really ashamed of keeping his whiskey padlocked in the
cellar. Your father is a strange man, Edmund. It took
many years before I understood him You must try to
understand and forgive him, too, and not feel contempt
because he’s close-fisted His father deserted his mother
and their six children a year or so after they came to
Amenca. He told them he had a premomtion he would
die soon, and he was homesick for Ireland, and wainted
to go back there to die So he went and he did die. He
must have been a peculiar man, too. Your father had to
go to work m a machine shop when he was only ten years
old.

EDMUND {protests dully). Oh, for Pete’s sake. Mama
I’ve heard Papa tell that machine-shop story ten thousand
umes.

MARY. Yes, dear, you’ve had to listen, but I don’t think
you’ve ever tned to imderstand.

EDMUND {ignoring this — miserably). Listen, Mama*
You’re not so far gone yet you’ve forgotten everything.
You haven’t asked me what I found out this afternoon.
Don’t you care a damn?

MARY {shakenly). Don’t say that* You hurt me, dear*

EDMUND. What I’ve got is senous. Mama. Doc Hardy
knows for sure now.

MARY {stiffens into scorrffd, defensive stubbornness). That
lying old quack! I warned you he’d mvent “— !

102

EDMOND {miserably dogged). He called m a specialist to
examine me, so he’d be absolutely sure.

MARY {ignoring ths). Don’t tell me about Hardy' If
you heard what the doctor at the sanatorium, who really
knows something, said about how he’d treated met He
said he ought to be locked up' He said it was a wonder I
hadn’t gone mad' I told him I had once, that time I ran
down in my mghtdress to throw myself off the dock. You
remember that, don’t you'’ And yet you want me to pay
attention to what Doctor Hardy says. Oh, no!

EDMUOT) {bitterly). I remember, aU nght. It was nght
after that Papa and Jamie deaded they couldn’t hide it
from me any more. Jaime told me. I called him a har,

I tried to punch him in the nose. But I knew he wasntl
lying {His voice trembles, his eyes begin to fill with tears.) God’
it made everythmg m life seem rotten'

MARY {pittably). Oh, don’t My baby! You hurt me so
dreadfully!

EDMUND {dully). I’m sorry. Mama. It was you who
brought it up. {Then with a bitter, stubborn persistence)
Listen, Mama. I’m going to tell you whether you want to
hear or not. I’ve got to go to a sanatorium.

MARY {dazedly, as if this was something that had rmer oc-
curred to her). Go away? {Violently ) No! I won’t have it!
How dare Doctor Hardy advise such a thing without con-
sulting me' How dare your father allow him' What nght
has he? You are my baby' Let him attend to Jamie'
{More and more exated and bitter.) I know why he wants you
sent to a sanatonum. To take you from me! He’s always
tned to do that. He’s been jealous of every one of my
babies! He kept finding ways to make me leave them.
Tliat’s what caused Eugene’s death. He’s been jealous c£
you most of all He knew I loved you most because —

103

EDMUND (mserably). Oh, stop talking crazy, can’t you.
Mama! Stop trying to blame him. And why are you so
against my going away nowi* I’ve been away a lot, and
I’ve never noticed it broke your heart!

MARY {bitterly). I’m afraid you’re not very sensitive,
after all. {Sadlj ) You might have guessed, dear, that after
I knew you knew — about me — I had to be glad when-
ever you were where you couldn’t see me.

EDMUND {brokenly). Mama> Don’t' {He reaches out
blindly and takes her hand — but he drops it immediately, over-
come by bitterness again.) All this talk about loving me —
and you won’t even listen when I try to tell you how
sick —

MARY {with an abrupt trantformation into a detached bullying
motherliness). Now, now. That’s enough' I don’t care to
hear because I know it’s nothing but Hardy’s ignorant
hes.

{He shrinks back into himself. She keeps on in a forced,
teasing tone but with an increasing undercurrent of
resentment.)

You’re so like your father, dear. You love to make a scene
out of nothing so you can be dramatic and tragic. {With a
belittling laugh.) If I gave you the slightest encouragement,
you’d tell me next you were gomg to die —

EDMUND. People do die of it. Your own father —

MARY {sharply). Why do you mention him'* There’s no
comparison at all with you. He had consumption.
{Angrily.) I hate you when you become gloomy and mor-
bid! I forbid you to remind me of my father’s death, do
you hear me?

EDMUND {his face hard— grimly). Yes, I hear you.
Mama. I wish to God I didn’t! {He gets up from his chair

104

and stands staring condemningly at her — bitterly.) It’s pretty
hard to take at times, having a dope fiend for a mother!

{She winces — all life seeming to drain from her face^ leath
tng It with the appearance of a plaster cast In*
stantly Edmund wishes he could take back what he
has said He stammers miserably )

Forgive me, Mama. I was angry. You hurt me.

( There is a pause in which the foghorn and the ships'^ bells
are heard )

MARY {goes slowly to the windows at right like an automaton —
looking outy a blanky far*off quality in her voice). Just listen to
that awful foghorn And the bells. Why is it fog makes
everything sound so sad and lost, I wonder^

EDMUND {brokenly). I — I can’t stay here. I don’t want
any dinner.

{He hurries away through the front parlour. She keeps
staring out of the window until she hears the front door
close behind him. Then she comes back and sits in
her chair, the same blank look on her face.)

MARY {vaguely). I must go upstairs. I haven’t taken
enough. {She pauses — then longingly.) I hope, sometime,
without meaning it, I will take an overdose. I never could
do it deliberately. The Blessed Virgin would never forgive
me, then.

{She hears Tyrone returning and turns as he comes in,
through the back parlour, with a bottle of whisky he
has just uncorked. He u fuming.)

TrELom.{wrathfully). The padlock is all scratched. That
drunken loafer has tried to pick the lock with a piece of
wire, the way he’s done before. {Witii satisf action, as tf this
was a perpetual battle of wits with hts elder son.) But I’ve

105

fooled liim this time. It’s a special padlock a professional
burglar couldn’t pick. {He puts the bottle on the tray and
suddenly is aware of Edmund’s absence.) Where’s Edmund?

MARY {mth a vague far-away air). He went out. Perhaps
he’s going uptown agam to find Jamie. He still has some
money left, I suppose, and it’s burning a hole in his
pocket. He said he didn’t want any dinner He doesn’t
seem to have any appetite these days. ( Then stubbornly )
But it’s just a summer cold.

{Tyrone stares at her and shakes his head helplessly and
pours himself a big dnnk and dnnks it. Suddenly it
IS too much for her and she breaks out and sobs.)

Oh, James, I’m so fhghtened' {She gets up and throws her
arms around him and hides her face on fas shoulder — sobbingly.)
I know he’s gomg to die'

TYRONE. Don’t say that' It’s not true' They promised
me in SIX months he’d be cured

MARY. You don’t beheve that' I can tell when you’re
acting' And it wiU be my fault. I should never have
borne him. It would have been better for his sake. I
could never hurt him then He wouldn’t have had to
know his mother was a dope fiend — and hate her!

TYRONE {his vcnce quivennf). Hush, Mary, for the love of
God! He loves you. He knows it was a curse put on you
without your knowing or wilhng it. He’s proud you’re his
mother! {Abruptly as he hears the pantry door opening.) Hush,
now! Here comes Gathleen. You don’t want her to see
you crying.

{She turns quickly away from him to the mndows at right,
hastily wiping her eyes. A moment later Cathleen
appears in the back-parhm doorway. She is uncer-
tain in her walk and gnrmng woozily.)
lo6

CATHLEEN {starts guiltily when she sees Tyrone — with dig-
nity)t Dinner is served. Sir. {Raising her voice unnecessarily,)
Dinner is served, Ma’am. {She forgets her dignity and addresses
Tyrone with good-natured familiarity,) So you’re here, are
you^ Well, well. Won’t Bridget be in a rage! I told her
the Madame said you wouldn’t be home. {Then reading
accusation in his eye,) Don’t be looking at me that way If
I’ve a drop taken, I didn’t steal it. I was invited. {She
turns with huffy dignity and disappears through the back parlour,)

TYRONE {sighs — then summoning his actor^s heartiness).
Come along, dear. Let’s have our dinner. I’m hungry as
a hunter.

MARY {comes to him — her face is composed in plaster again and
her tone is remote), I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,
James I couldn’t possibly eat anything. My hands pain
me dreadfully. I think the best thing for me is to go to bed
and rest. Good mght, dear. {She kisses him mechanically and
turns toward the front parlour,)

TYRONE {harshly). Up to take more of that God-damned
poison, IS that it^ You’ll be like a mad ghost before the
mght’s over!

MARY {starts to walk away — blankly), I don’t know what
you’re talking about, James. You say such mean, bitter
things when you’ve drunk too much. You’re as bad as
Jaime or Edmund.

{She moves off through the front parlour He stands a
second as if not knowing what to do. He is a sad^
bewildered^ broken old man He walks wearily off
through the back parlour toward the dining-room,)

Curtain

107

ACT FOUR

SCENE The same. It u around midnight The lamp in the front
hall has been turned out^ so that now no light shines through
the front parlour. In the living-room only the reading-lamp
on the table is lighted Outside the windows the wall of fog
appears denser than ever As the curtain rises, the foghorn is
heard, followed by the ships' bells from the harbour

Tyrone is seated at the table. He wears his pince-nez, and
is playing solitaire. He has taken off his coat and has on an
old brown dressing-gown The whiskey bottle on the tray
IS three-quarters empty. There is a fresh full bottle on the
table, which he has brought from the cellar so there will be
an ample reserve at hand. He is drunk and shows it by the
owlish, deliberate manner in which he peers at each card to
make certain of its identity, and then plays it as if he wasn't
certain of his am Hu eyes have a misted, oily look and his
mouth u slack. But despite all the whiskey in him, he has
not escaped, and he looks as he appeared at the close of the
preceding act, a sad, defeated old man, possessed by hopeless
resignation.

As the curtain rises, he finishes a game and sweeps the cards
together. He shuffles them clumsily, dropping a couple on
the floor. He retrieves them with difficulty, and starts to
shuffle again, when he hears someone entering the front door.
He peers over hu pince-nez through the front parlour.

TYRONE {his voice thick). Who’s that^ Is it you, Edmund?

{Edmund's voice answers curtly, Yes. Then he evidently
collides with something in the dark hall and can be
heard cursing. A moment later the hall lamp is
turned on. Tyrone frowns and calls.)
xo8

Turn that hght out before you come in.

{But Edmund doesn't. He comes in through the front
parlour. He is drunk now, too, but like his father he
carries it well, and gives little physical sign of it
except in his eyes and a chip-on-the-shoidder aggres-
siveness in his manner. Tyrone speaks, at first with
a warm, relieved welcome.)

I’m glad you’ve come, lad. I’ve been damned lonely.
( Then resentfidly.) You’re a fine one to run away and leave
me to sit alone here all night when you know — {With
sharp irritation.) I told you to turn out that hght! We’re
not giving a ball. There’s no reason to have the house
ablaze with electnaty at this time of mght, burmng up
money!

EDMUND {angrily). Ablaze with electncity! One bulb!
Hell, everyone keeps a hght on m the front hall until they
go to bed {He rubs his knee.) I damned near busted my
knee on the hat stand.

TYRONE. The light fi'om here shows in the hall. You
could see your way well enough if you were sober.

EDMUND. If I was sober^ I like that!

TYRONE. I don’t give a damn what other people do. If
they want to be wasteful fijols, for the sake of show, let
them be!

EDMUND. One bulb! Christ, don’t be such a cheap
skate! I’ve proved by figures if you left the hght bulb on
all night it wouldn’t be as much as one drink!

TYRONE. To hell with your figures! The proof is in the
bills I have to pay!

EDMUND {sits down Opposite his father — corOemptuously).
Yes, facts don’t mean a thing, do they? What you want

109

to believe, that’s the only truth • {Derisively.) Shakespeare
weis an Insh Cathohc, for example.

TYRONE {stubbornly). So he was. The proof is in his
plays.

EDMUND. Well he wasn’t, and there’s no proof of it in
his plays, except to you! {Jeenngly.) The Duke of Wel-
hngton, there was another good Insh Cathohc'

TYRONE. I never said he was a good one. He was a
renegade, but a Cathohc just the same.

EDMUND. Well, he wasn’t. You just want to beheve no
one but an Insh Cathohc general could beat Napoleon.

TYRONE I’m not going to argue with you. I asked you
to turn out that hght in the hall.

EDMUND. I heard you, and as far as I’m concerned it
stays on.

TYRONE None of your damned insolence' Are you go-
mg to obey me or not-’

EDMUND. Not! If you want to be a crazy miser put it
out yourself'

TYRONE {with threatening anger). Listen to me' I’ve put
up with a lot from you because from the mad thmgs
you’ve done at times I’ve thought you weren’t quite nght
in your head. I’ve excused you and never hfted my hand
to you. But there’s a straw that breaks the camel’s back.
You’ll obey me and put out that hght or, big as you are.
I’ll give you a thrashing that’ll teach you — ' {Suddenly
he remembers Edmund's illness and instantly becomes guilty and
shamefaced) Forgive me, lad. I forgot— You shouldn’t
goad me mto losing my temper. '

EDMUND {ashamed himself now). Forget it. Papa. I

no

apologize, too. I had no right being nasty about nothing.
I am a bit soused, I guess. 1^11 put out the damned light.
{He starts to get up.)

TYRONE. No, stay where you are. Let it bum. {He
stands up abruptly — and a bit drunkenly — and begins turning
on the three bulbs in the chandelier^ with a childish^ bitterly
dramatic self-pity ) We’ll have them all on! Let them bum!
To hell with them* The poorhouse is the end of the road,
and it roight as well be sooner as later! {He finishes turning
on the lights.)

EDMUND {has watched this proceeding with an awakened sense
of humour — now he gnnSy teasing affectionately). That’s a
grand curtain. {He laughs.) You’re a wonder. Papa.

TYRONE {sits down sheepishly— grumbles pathetically). That’s
nght, laugh at the old fool! The poor old ham! But the
final curtain will be in the poorhouse just the same, and
that’s not comedy* {Then as Edmund is still grinning^ he
changes the subject ) Well, well, let’s not argue. You’ve got
brains in that head of yours, though you do your best to
deny them. You’ll live to learn the value of a dollar.
You’re not hke your damned tramp of a brother. I’ve
given up hope he’ll ever get sense. Where is he, by the
way?

EDMUND. How would I know?

TYRONE. I thought you’d gone back uptown to meet
him.

EDMUND No. I walked out to the beach. I haven’t
seen him since this afternoon.

TYRONE. Well, if you split the money I gave you with
him, like a fool —

EDMUND. Sure I did. He’s always staked me when he
had anythmg.

Ill

TYRONE. Then it doesn’t take a soothsayer to tell he’s
probably in the whorehouse.

EDMUND. What of It if he is^ Why not^

TYRONE {contemptuously). Why not, indeed It’s the fit
place for him If he’s ever had a loftier dream than
whores and whiskey, he’s never shown it

EDMUND Oh, for Pete’s sake, Papa' If you’re gomg to
start that stuff. I’ll beat it {He starts to get up.)

TYRONE {placatingly). All right, all nght. I’ll stop. God
knows, I don’t like the subject either. Will you jom me m
a dnnk?

EDMUND. Ah' Now you’re talking!

TYRONE {passes the bottle to him — mechanically). I’m
wrong to treat you. You’ve had enough already.

EDMUND {pouring a big dnnk — a bit drunkenly) Enough is
not as good as a feast. {He hands back the bottle.)

TYROKTE. It’s too much in your condition.

EDMUND. Forget my condition! {He raises his glass.)
Here’s how.

TYRONE. Dnnk hearty.

{Th^ dnnk.)

If you walked all the way to the beach you must be damp
and chilled.

EDMUND. Oh, I dropped in at the Inn on the way out
and back.

TYRONE It’s not a mght I’d pick for a long walk.

EDMUND. I loved the fog. It was what I needed. {He
sounds more up^ and looks it.)

112

TYRONE. You should havc more sense than to nsk —

EDMUND. To hell with sense! We’re all crazy. What
do we want with sense? {He quotes from Dowson sardonicallj.)

“They are not long, the weepmg and the laughter.
Love and desire and hate
I think they have no portion m us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.”

{Staring before him.) The fog was where I wanted to be.
Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. You’d
never know it was here. Or any of the other places down
the avenue. I couldn’t see but a few feet ahead I didn’t
meet a soul. Every thing looked and sounded unreal.
Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted — to be
alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue
and life can hide firom itself. Out beyond the harbour,
where the road runs along the beach, I even lost the feel-
ing of bang on land. The fog and the sea seemed part of
each other. It was hke walking on the bottom of the sea.
As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was a ghost belong-
ing to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea. It felt
damned peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost withm
a ghost {He sees tas father staring at km mth mingled worry
and irritated disapproval He gyms mockingly.) Don’t look at
me as if I’d gone nutty. I’m talking sense. Who wants to
see life as it is, if they can help it? It’s the three Gorgons
in one You look in them faces and turn to stone. Or it’s
Pan You see him and you die — that is, inside you — and
have to go on livmg as a ghost.

TYRONE {mpressed and at the same time revolted). You have

H II3

a poet in you but it’s a damned morbid one! {Forcing a
smile.) Devil take your pessirmsm. I feel low-spinted
enough, {He sighs ) Why can’t you remember your
Shakespeare and forget the third-raters^ You’ll find what
you’re trymg to say m him — as you’ll find everything else
worth saying {He quotes^ using his fine voice.) “We are such
stuff as dreams are made on, and our htde hfe is rounded
with a sleep.”

EDMUND (zroniraZ) . Finel That’s beautiful. But I wasn’t
trying to say that. We are such stuff as manure is made
on, so let’s iink up and forget it. That’s more my idea.

TYRONE {disgustedly). Ach' Keep such sentiments to
yourself. I shouldn’t have given you that dnnk.

EDMUND. It did pack a wallop, all nght On you, too.
{He gnns with affectionate teasing ) Even if you’ve never
missed a performance' {Aggressively ) Well, what’s wrong
with being drunk? It’s what we’re after, isn’t it^ Let’s not
kid each other. Papa Not tomght. We know what we’re
trying to forget {Hurriedly.) But let’s not talk about it.
It’s no use now.

TYRONE {dully). No. All we can do is try to be resigned
— again.

EDMUND. Or be so drunk you can forget. {He rentes, and
rentes well, with bitter, ironical passion, the Symons' translatwn
of Baudelaire' s prose i)oem.) “Be always drunken. Nothing
else matters’lHal TS' lfie only question. If you would not
feel the horrible burden of Time waghing on your
shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken
continually

Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with
virtue, as you will. But be drunken.

And if sometimes, on the stairs of a palace, or on the
green side of a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own

1 14

room, you should awaken and the drunkenness be half or
wholly shpped away from you, ask of the wind, or of the
wave, or of the star, or of the bird, or of the clock, of
whatever flies, or sighs, or rocks, or sings, or speaks, ask
what hour it is, and the wind, wave, star, bird, dock, will
answer you ‘It is the hour to be drunken! Be drunken, if
you would not be martyred slaves of Time; be drunken
continually I With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as
you will ’ ” {He gnns at hts father provocatively.)

TYRONE {thickly humorous). I wouldn’t worry about the
virtue part of it, if I were you. {Then disgusted^ ) Pah!
It’s morbid nonsense' What httle truth is in it you’ll find
nobly said in Shakespeare. ( Then appreaatively ) But you
reated it well, lad. Who wrote it?

EDMUND. Baudelaire.

TYRONE. Never heard of him.

EDMUND {gnns provocatively). He also wrote a poem about
Jamie and the Great White Way —

TYRONE. That loafer' I hope to God he misses the last
car and has to stay uptown'

EDMUND {goes on, Ignoring this). Although he was French
and never saw Broadway and died before Jamie was bom.
He knew him and Little Old New York just the same. {He
rentes the Symons’ translation of Baudelaire’ s ^‘Epilogue”.)

“With heart at rest I chmbed the dtadd’s
Steep height, and saw the city as from a tower,
Hospital, brothel, prison, and such hells.

Where evil comes up softly like a flower.

Thou knowest, O Satan, patron of my pain.

Not for vain tears I went up at that hour,

“5

But like an old sad faithful lecher, fain
To dnnk dehght of that enormous trull
Whose helhsh beauty makes me young again.

Whether thou sleep, with heavy vapours full,
Sodden with day, or, new apparelled, stand
In gold-laced veils of evemng beautiful,

I love thee, infamous city* Harlots and
Hunted have pleasures of their own to give.

The vulgar herd can never understand ”

TYRONE (with irritable disgust). Morbid filth! Where the
hell do you get your taste in hterature-* Filth and despair
and pessimism* Another atheist, I suppose When you
deny God, you deny hope. That’s the trouble with you.
If you’d get down on your knees —

EDMUND (as if he hadn’t heard — sardonually). It’s a good
hkeness of Jamie, don’t you think, hunted by hims elf and
whiskey, hiding in a Broadway hotel room with some fat
tart — he hkes them fat — reating Dowson’s Cynara to
her. (He rentes derisively, but with deep feeling.)

“All mght upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat.
Night-long withm mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion.

When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara* in my fashion.”

(Jeenngly.) And the poor fat burlesque queen doesn’t get
a word of it, but suspects she’s being insulted* And Jamie
never loved any Cynara, and was never faithful to a
woman in his hfe, even in his fashion! But he hes there,
kidding himself he is superior and enjoys pleasures “the
vulgar herd can never understand” ! (He laughs.) It’s nuts
— completely nuts!

ii6

TYRONE {vaguely — his voice thick). It’s madness, yes. If
you’d get on your knees and pray. When you deny Grod,
you deny samty.

EDMUND {ignoring this). But who am I to feel superior^
IVe done the same damned thing. And it’s no more crazy
than Dowson himself, inspired by an absinthe hangover,
writing it to a dumb barmaid, who thought he was a poor
crazy souse, and gave him the gate to marry a waiter! {He
laughs — then soberly^ with genuine sympathy.) Poor Dowson
Booze and consumption got him. {He starts and for a second
looks miserable and frightened Then with defensive irony.) Per-
haps it would be tactful of me to change the subject.

TYRONE {thickly) . Where you get your taste in authors —
That damned library of yours! {He indicates the small book-
case at rear ) Voltaire, Rousseau, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche,
Ibsen! Atheists, fools, and madmen^ And your poets^
This Dowson, and this Baudelaire, and Swinburne and
Oscar Wilde, and Whitman and Poe* Whoremongers and
degenerates^ Pah^ When IVe three good sets of Shake-
speare there {he nods at the large bookcase) you could read.

EDMUND {provocatively). They say he was a souse, too.

TYRONE. They he! I don’t doubt he liked his glass —
it’s a good man’s faihng — - but he knew how to dnnk so it
didn’t poison his brain with morbidness and filth Don’t
compare him with the pack you’ve got in there. {He indi-
cates the small bookcase again.) Your dirty Zola! And your
Dante Gabnel Rossetti who was a dope fiend! {He starts
and looks guilty.)

EDMUND {with defensive dryruss). Perhaps it would be vdse
to change the subject. {A pause ) You can’t accuse me of
not knowing Shakespeare. Didn’t I win five dollais from
you once when you bet me I couldn’t learn a leading part
of his m a week, as you used to do in stock in the old days.

117

I learned Macbeth and recited it letter-perfect, with you
giving me the cues.

TYRONE {approvingly). That’s true. So you did. {He
smiles teasingly and sighs ) It was a terrible ordeal, I remem-
ber, hearmg you murder the hnes. I kept wishmg I’d paid
over the bet without making you prove it {He chuckles and
Edmund gnns. Then he starts as he hears a sound from upstairs —
mth dread.) Did you hear^ She’s moving around. I was
hoping she’d gone to sleep.

EDMUND. Forget It' How about another dnnk^ {He
reaches out and gets the bottle, pours a dnnk and hands it back
Then with a strained casualness, as his father pours a dnnk.)
When did Mama go to bed?

TYRONE. Right after you left She wouldn’t eat any
dinner. What made you ran away?

EDMUND. Nothmg. {Abruptly raising his glass ) Well,
here’s how.

TYRONE {mechanically). Drink hearty, lad.

{They dnnk. Tyrone again listens to sounds upstairs —
with dread )

She’s moving around a lot. I hope to God she doesn’t
come down.

EDMUND {dully). Yes. She’ll be nothing but a ghost
haunting the past by this time. {He pauses — then rtaserably.)
Back before I was bom —

TYRONE. Doesn’t she do the same with me'^ Back be-
fore she ever knew me. You’d think the only happy days
she’s ever known were in her father’s home, or at the Con-
vent, praying and playmg the piano. {Jealous resentment in
kts bitterness.) As I’ve told you before, you must take her
memories with a gram of salt Her wonderful home was

ii8

ordinary enough. Her father wasn’t the great, generous,
noble Irish gentleman she makes out. He was a nice
enough man, good company and a good talker. I liked
him and he hked me. He was prosperous enough, too, in
his wholesale grocery business, an able man But he had
his weakness She condemns my dnnking but she forgets
his. It’s true he never touched a drop till he was forty, but
after that he made up for lost time. He became a steady
champagne drinker, the worst kind. That was his grand
pose, to drink only champagne. Well, it fimshed him
quick — that and the consumption — {He stops with a guilty
glance at his son.)

EDMUND {sardonically). We don’t seem able to avoid un-
pleasant topics, do we?

TYRONE {sighs sadly) . No. ( Then with a pathetic attempt at
heartiness ) What do you say to a game or two of Casino,
lad^

EDMUND. All right.

TYRONE {shuffling the cards clumsily). We can’t lock up
and go to bed till Jamie comes on the last trolley — which
I hope he won’t — and I don’t want to go upstairs, any-
way, till she’s asleep.

EDMUND. Neither do I.

TYRONE {keeps shuffling the cards fumbhnglyy forgetting to deal
them) . As I was saying, you must take her tales of the past
with a grain of salt. The piano playing and her dream of
becoming a concert piamst. That was put in her head by
the nuns flattenng her. She was their pet. They loved
her for being so devout. They’re innocent women, any-
way, when It comes to the world. They don’t know that
not one m a million who shows promise ever rises to con-
cert playing. Not that your mother didn’t play well for a

119

schoolgirl, but that’s no reason to take it for granted she
could have —

EDMUND {sharply). Why don’t you deal, if we’re going
to play.

TYRONE Eh^ I am. {Dealing with very uncertain judgment
of distance.) And the idea she might have become a nun.
That’s the worst Your mother was one of the most beau-
tiful girls you could ever see. She knew it, too She was a
bit of a rogue and a coquette, God bless her, behind all
her shyness and blushes. She was never made to renounce
the world. She was bursting with health and high spints
and the love of loving.

EDMUND. For God’s sake. Papa* Why don’t you pick
up your hand?

TYRONE {picks it up — dully). Yes, let’s see what I have
here.

{They both stare at their cards unseeingly. Then they
both start. Tyrone whispers.)

Listen!

EDMUND. She’s coming downstairs.

TYRONE {hurriedly). We’ll play our game. Pretend not
to notice and she’ll soon go up again.

EDMUND {staring through the front parlour — with relief). I
don’t see her. She must have started down and then
turned back.

TYRONE. Thank God.

EDMUND. Yes. It’s pretty horrible to see her the way she
must be now. {With bitter misery ) The hardest thing to
take is the blank wall she builds around her. Or it’s more
like a bank of fog in which she hides and loses herself.

120

DeKberately, that’s the hell of it! You know something in
her does it dehberately — to get beyond our reach, to be
nd of us, to forget we’re alive! It’s as if, in spite of loving
us, she hated usl

TYRONE {remonstrates gently). Now, now, lad. It’s not
her. It’s the damned poison,

EDMtTND {biUerly), She takes it to get that effect. At
least, I know she did this time! {Abruptly,) My play, isn’t
It? Here. {He plays a card)

TYRONE {plays mechanically ^ gently reproachful). She’s
been terribly fhghtened about your illness, for all her pre-
tending, Don’t be too hard on her, lad. Remember she’s
not responsible. Once that cursed poison gets a hold on
anyone —

EDMUND {huface grows hard and he stares at his father with
bitter accusatiori). It never should have gotten a hold on
her! I know damned well she’s not to blame* And I know
who is! You are* Your danrned stinginess* If you’d spent
money for a decent doctor when she was so sick after I was
born, she’d never have known morphine existed! Instead
you put her in the hands of a hotel quack who wouldn’t
admit his ignorance and took the easiest way out, not
giving a damn what happened to her afterwards* All be-
cause his fee was cheap! Another one of your bargains!

TYRONE {stung — angrily). Be quiet! How dare you talk
of something you know nothing about* {Trying to control
his temper.) You must try to see my side of it, too, lad.
How was I to know he was that kind of a doctor? He had
a good reputation —

EDMUND. Among the souses in the hotel bar, I suppose*

TYRONE, That’s a lie! I asked the hotel proprietor to
recommend the best —

I2I

EDMUND. Yes' At the same time crying poorhouse and
making it plam you wanted a cheap one' I know your
system' By God, I ought to after this afternoon!

TYRONE {guiltily defensive). What about this afternoon?

EDMUND. Never mind now We’re talking about
Mama! I’m saying no matter how you excuse yourself
you know damned well your stinginess is to blame —

TYRONE. And I say you’re a har! Shut your mouth
nght now, or —

EDMUND {ignoring this). After you found out she’d been
made a morphine addict, why didn’t you send her to a
cure then, at the start, while she still had a chance^ No,
that would have meant spending some money' I’ll bet
you told her all she had to do was use a httle will-power'
That’s what you still beheve in your heart, in spite of what
doctors, who really know something about it, have told
you!

TYRONE. You he again! I know better than that now'
But how was I to know then'!’ What did I know of mor-
phine’’ It was years before I discovered what was wrong.
I thought she’d never got over her sickness, that’s all.
Why didn’t I send her to a cure, you say? {Bitterly.)
Haven’t P I’ve spent thousands upon thousands in cures'
A waste. What good have they done her? She always
started again.

EDMUND. Because you’ve never given her anything that
would help her want to stay off it! No home except this
summer dump in a place she hates and you’ve refused
even to spend money to make this look decent, while you
keep buying more property, and playing sucker for every
con mzm with a gold mine, or a silver mine, or any kind of
get-iich-quick swmdle! You’ve dragged her around on
the road, season after season, on one-mght stands, with

122

no one she could talk to, waiting night after night in dirty
hotel rooms for you to come back with a bun on after the
bars closed! Ghnst, is it any wonder she didn’t want to
be cured. Jesus, when I think of it I hate your guts*

TYRONE [stnckenly). Edmund* {Then in a rage.) How
dare you talk to your father hke that, you insolent young
cub! After all I’ve done for you.

EDMUND. We’ll come to that, what you’re doing for me!

TYRONE {looking guilty again — ignores this). Will you stop
repeating your mother’s crazy accusations, which she
never makes unless it’s the poison talking? I never dragged
her on the road against her will Naturally, I wanted her
with me. I loved her. And she came because she loved
me and wanted to be with me. That’s the truth, no mat-
ter what she says when she’s not heiself. And she needn’t
have been lonely. There was always the members of my
company to talk to, if she’d wanted. She had her children,
too, and I insisted, m spite of the expense, on having a
nurse to travel with her.

EDMUND {bitterly). Yes, your one generosity, and that
because you were jealous of her paying too much attention
to us, and wanted us out of your way* It was another mis-
take, too* If she’d had to take care of me all by herself,
and had that to occupy her mind, maybe she’d have been
able —

TYRONE {goaded inio vindictiveness). Or for that matter, if
you insist on judging things by what she says when she’s
not in her right mind, if you hadn’t been bom she’d
never — {He stops ashamed.)

EDMUND {suddenly spent and miserably). Sure. I know
that’s what she feels. Papa.

TYRONE {protests penitently). She doesn’t! She loves you

123

as dearly as ever mother loved a son' I only said that be-
cause you put me m such a God-damned rage, raking up
the past, and saying you hate me —

EDMUND {didly). I didn’t mean it. Papa {He suddenly
smiles — kidding a bit drunkenly.) I’m hke Mama, I can’t
help hking you, in spite of everything.

TYRONE {gnns a bit drunkenly in return). I might say the
same of you. You’re no great shakes as a son. It’s a case
of “A poor thing but mine own ”

{They both chuckle with real, if alcoholic, affection.
Tyrone changes the subject )

What’s happened to our game? Whose play is it?

EDMUND. Yours, I gucss.

{Tyrone plays a card which Edmund takes and the game
gets forgotten again.)

TYRONE You mustn’t let yourself be too downhearted,
lad, by the bad news you had today. Both the doctors
proimsed me, if you obey orders at this place you’re going,
you’ll be cured in six months, or a year at most.

EDMUND {his face hard agait^. Don’t kid me. You don’t
beheve that.

TYRONE {too vehemently). Of course I beheve it! Why
shouldn’t I beheve it when both Hardy and the
specialist — ?

EDMUND. You think I’m going to die.

TYRONE. That’s a he! You’re crazy!

EDMUND {more bitterly) So why waste money? That’s
why you’re sending me to a state farm —

TYRONE (mi gjulty cotfusion). What state farm? It’s the

124

Hilltown Sanatonum, that’s all I know, and both doctons
said It was the best place for you.

EDMUND {scathingly). For the money! That is, for noth-
mg, or practically nothmg. Don’t he. Papa' You know
damned well HiUtown Sanatonum is a state institution'
Jamie suspected you’d cry poorhouse to Hardy and he
wormed the truth out of ham.

TYRONE {furiously). That drunken loafer' I’ll kick him
out in the gutter' He’s poisoned your mind against me
ever since you were old enough to hsten!

EDMUND. You can’t deny it’s the truth about the state
farm, can you?

TYRONE It’s not true the way you look at it' What if
It IS run by the state-* That’s nothing against it The state
has the money to make a better place than any pnvate
sanatorium. And why shouldn’t I take advantage of it'*
It’s my right — and yours We’re residents. I’m a prop-
erty owner. I help to support it. I’m taxed to death —

EDMUND {unth bitter irony). Yes, on property valued at a
quarter of a noillion.

TYROUTE. lies! It’s all mortgaged!

EDMUND. Hardy and the specialist know what you’re
worth. I wonder what they thought of you when they
heard you moaning poorhouse and showmg you wanted
to wish me on chanty!

TYRONE. It’s a lie' All I told them was I couldn’t afford
any millionaire’s sanatorium because I was land poor.
That’s the truth!

EDMUND. And then you went to the Club to meet
McGuire and let him stick you with another bum piece of

125

property! {As Tyrone starts to deny.) Don’t lie about it! We
met McGuire m the hotel bar after he left you Jaime
kidded him about hooking you, and he winked and
laughed*

TYRONE {lying feebly). He’s a liar if he said —

EDMUND. Don’t lie about it* {With gathering intensity.)
God, Papa, ever since I went to sea and was on my own,
and found out what hard work for httle pay was, and what
It felt hke to be broke, and starve, and camp on park
benches because I had no place to sleep. I’ve tned to be
fair to you because I knew what you’d been up against as
a kid I’ve tned to make allowances. Chnst, you have
to make allowances in this damned family or go nuts* I
have tried to make allowances for myself when I remem-
ber all the rotten stuff I’ve pulled! I’ve tried to feel hke
Mama that you can’t help being what you are where
money is concerned But God Almighty, this last stunt
of yours is too much! It makes me want to puke* Not
because of the rotten way you’re treating me. To hell with
that! I’ve treated you rottenly, in my way, more than
once. But to think when it’s a question of your son having
consumption, you can show yourself up before the whole
town as such a stinking old tightwad* Don’t you know
Hardy wiU talk and the whole damned town will know?
Jesus, Papa, haven’t you any pride or shame? {Bursting
with rage.) And don’t think I’ll let you get away with it*
I won’t go to any damned state farm just to save you a
few lousy dollars to buy more bum property with* You
stinking old miser — * {He chokes huskily^ hzs voice trembling
with rage^ and then is shaken by a fit of coughing.

TYRONE {has shank back in his chair under this attack^ hu
guilty contrition greater than his anger. He stammm) . Be qmet *
Don’t say that to me! You’re drunk* I won’t mind you.
Stop coughing, lad. You’ve got yourself worked up over

126

nothing. Who said you had to go to this Hilltown place?
You can go anywhere you hke. I don't give a damn what
It costs. All I care about is to have you get weH. Don’t call
me a stinking miser, just because I don’t want doctors to
think Fm a milhonaire they can swindle.

{Edmund has stopped coughing. He looks sick and weak.
His father stares at him fnghtenedly,)

You look weak, lad You’d better take a bracer.

EDMUND {grabs the bottle and pours his glass brimful--
weakly). Thanks. {He gulps down the whiskey,)

TYRONE {pours himself a big drvnk^ which empties the bottle^
and dnnks it. His head bows and he stares dully at the cards on
the table — vaguely). Whose play is it? {He goes on dully,
without resentment,) A stinking old miser. Well, maybe
you’re right. Maybe I can’t help being, although all my
hfe since I had anything I’ve thrown money over the bar
to buy dnnks for everyone in the house, or loaned money
to sponges I knew would never pay it back— {With a
loose-mouthed sneer of self contempt,) But, of course, that was
in bar-rooms, when I was full of whiskey. I can’t feel that
way about it when I’m sober in my home. It was at home
I first learned the value of a dollar and the fear of the poor-
house. I’ve never been able to beheve in my luck since.
I’ve always feared it would change and everything I had
would be taken away. But still, the more property you
own, the safer you think you are. That may not be logical,
but it’s the way I have to feel. Banks fail, and your
money’s gone, but you think you can keep land beneath
your feet. {Abruptly his tone becomes scornfully superior ) You
said you reahzed what I’d been up against as a boy. The
heU you do^ How could you^ You’ve had eveiything —
nurses, schools, college, though you didn’t stay there.
You’ve had food, clothing. Oh, I know you had a fling

197

of hard work with your back and hands, a bit of being
homeless and penmless m a foreign land, and I respect
you for It. But it was a game of romance and adventure
to you. It was play.

EDMUND {dully sarcastic). Yes, particularly the time I
tned to commit smade at Jimmie the Pnest’s, and almost
did.

TYRONE. You weren’t in your right mind. No son of
min e would ever — You were drunk

EDMUND I was stone cold sober. That was the trouble.
I’d stopped to think too long.

TYRONE {with drunken peevishness) Don’t start your
damned atheist morbidness again' I don’t care to hsten
I was trying to make plain to you — {Scornfully ) What do
you know of the value of a dollar^ When I was ten my
father deserted my mother and went back to Ireland to
die Which he did soon enough, and deserved to, and I
hope he’s roasting in hell. He imstook rat poison for flour,
or sugar, or something. There was gossip it wasn’t by
mistake iDut that’s a he. No one in my family ever —

EDMUND. My bet is, it wasn’t by mistake.

TYRONE. More morbidness! Your brother put that in
your head. The worst he can suspect is the only truth for
him. But never mind. My mother was left:, a stranger in
a strange land, with four small children, me and a sister
a httle older and two younger than me. My two older
brothers had moved to other parts. They couldn’t help.
They were hard put to it to keep themselves ahve. There
was no damned romance in our poverty. Twice we were
evicted from the miserable hovel we called home, with
my mother’s few sticks of furmture thrown out in the
street, and my mother and sisters crying. I cned, too,

128

though I tned hard not to, because I was the man of the
family. At ten years old^ There was no more school for
me. I worked twelve hours a day in a machine shop,
learmng to make files. A dirty barn of a place where rain
dnpped through the roof, where you roasted in summer,
and there was no stove in winter, and your hands got
numb with cold, where the only hght came through two
small filthy windows, so on grey days I*d have to sit bent
over with my eyes almost touching the files in order to see!
You talk of work’ And what do you thmk I got for it^
Fifty cents a week’ It’s the truth! Fifty cents a week! And
my poor mother washed and scrubbed for the Yanks by
the day, and my older sister sewed, and my two younger
stayed at home to keep the house. We never had clothes
enough to wear, nor enough food to eat. Well I remember
one Thanksgiving, or maybe it was Christmas, when some
Yank in whose house mother had been scrubbmg gave her
a dollar extra for a present, and on the way home she
spent It all on food. I can remember her hugging and
kissing us and saying with tears of joy running down her
tired face: *'Glory be to God, for once in our lives we’ll
have enough for each of us {He wipes tears from hu eyes.)
A fine, brave, sweet woman. There never was a braver or
finer.

EDMUND {moved). Yes, she must have been.

TYRONE. Her one fear was she’d get old and sick and
have to die in the poorhouse. {He pauses — then adds with
gnm humour.) It was in those days I learned to be a miser.
A dollar was worth so much then. And once you’ve
learned a lesson, it’s hard to unlearn it. You have to look
for bargains. If I took this state farm sanatorium for a
good bargain, you’ll have to forgive me. The doctors did
tell me it’s a good place. You must believe that, Edmund.
And I swear I never meant you to go there if you didn’t
want to. {Vehemently.) You can choose any place you like!

I 129

Never mind what it costs! Any place I can alford. Any
place you like — withm reason.

(At this qualification, a gnn twitches Edmund's hps. His
resentment has gone. His father goes on with an
elaborately offhand, casual air )

There was another sanatonum the speaahst recom-
mended. He said it had a record as good as any place in
the country. It’s endowed by a group of milhonaire fac-
tory owners, for the benefit of their workers pnncipaUy,
but you’re ehgible to go there because you’re a resident.
There’s such a pile of money behind it, they don’t have to
charge much. It’s only seven dollars a week but you get
ten times that value. (Hastily.) I don’t want to persuade
you to anythmg, imderstand. I’m simply repeating what
I was told.

EDMUND (concealing his smile — casually) . Oh, I know that.
It sounds hke a good bargam to me I’d hke to go there.
So that settles that (Abruptly he is miserably desperate again —
duUy ) It doesn’t matter a damn now, anyway. Let’s
forget It* (Changing the subject.) How about our game?
Whose play is it?

TYRONE (mechanically). I don’t know. Mine, I guess.
No, it’s yours.

(Edmund plays a card. His father takes it. Then about
to play from fas hand, he agcan forgets the game.)

Yes, maybe hfe overdid the lesson for me, and made a
dollar worth too much, and the time came when that mis-
take rmned my career as a fine actor. (Sadly.) I’ve never
admitted this to anyone before, lad, but tonight I’m so
heartsick I feel at the end of everything, and what’s the
use of fake pride and pretence. That God-damned play
I bought for a song and made such a great success in — a
great money success — it ruined me with its promise of an

130

easy fortune. 1 didn’t want to do anything else, and by
the time I woke up to the fact I’d become a slave to the
damned thing and did try other plays, it was too late.
They had identified me with that one part, and didn’t
want me m anything else. They were nght, too. I’d lost
the great talent I once had through years of easy repeti-
tion, never learning a new part, never really working hard.
Thirty-five to forty thousand dollars net profit a season
hke snapping your fingers' It was too great a temptation.
Yet before I bought the damned thing I was considered
one of the three or four young actors with the greatest
artistic promise m Amenca. I’d worked hke hell. I’d left
a good job as a machimst to take supers’ parts because I
loved the theatre. I was wild with ambition. I read all
the plays ever written I studied Shakespeare as you’d
study the Bible. I educated myself. I got nd of an Irish
brogue you could cut with a knife. I loved Shakespeare.
I would have acted in any of his plays for nothing, for the
joy of being ahve in his great poetry. And I acted well in
him I felt inspired by him. I could have been a great
Shakespearean actor, if I’d kept on. I know that! In 1874
when Edwin Booth came to the theatre in Chicago where
I was leadmg man, I played Cassius to his Brutus one
mght, Brutus to his Cassius the next, Othdlo to his lago,
and so on. The first mght I played Othello, he said to our
manager, “That young man is playmg Othello better than
I ever did'” {Proudly) That firom Booth, the greatest
actor of his day or any odierl And it was true! And I was
only twenty-seven years old! As I look back on it now,
that mght was the high spot in my career. I had life where
I wanted it! And for a time after that I kept on upward
with ambition high. Mamed your mother. Ask her what
I was like in those days Her love was an added incentive
to ambition. But a few years later my good bad luck made
me find the big money-maker. It wasn’t that in my eyes
at first. It w^ a great romantic part I knew I could play

131

better than anyone. But it was a great box-office success
from the start — and then hfe had me where it wanted me
— at from thirty-five to forty thousand net profit a season!
A fortune in those days— -or even in these. {Bitterly,)
What the hell was it I wanted to buy, I wonder, that was
worth — Well, no matter It’s a late day for regrets. {He
glances vaguely at his cards ) My play, isn’t it^

EDMUND {movedy stares at his father with understanding--
slowly), I’m glad you’ve told me this. Papa I know you
a lot better now.

TYRONE {with a loosCy twisted smile). Maybe I shouldn’t
have told you. Maybe you’ll only feel more contempt for
me. And it’s a poor way to convince you of the value of a
dollar ( Then as if this phrase automatically aroused an habitual
association in his mindy he glances up at the chandelier disapprov-^
ingly.) The glare from those extra lights hurts my eyes
You don’t mind if I turn them out, do you^ We don’t
need them, and there’s no use making the Electric Com-
pany nch.

EDMUND {controlling a wild impulse to laugh — agreeably).
No, sure not Turn them out.

TYRONE {gets heavily and a bit waveringly to his feet and gropes
uncertainly for the lights — his mind going back to its line of
thought). No, I don’t know what the hell it was I wanted
to buy, {He clicks out one bulb ) On my solemn oath, Ed-
mund, I’d gladly face not having an acre of land to call
my own, nor a penny in the bani — {He clicks out another
bulb ) I’d be wilhng to have no home but the poorhouse
m my old age if I could look back now on having been the
fine artist I might have been.

{He turns out the third bulby so only the reading lamp is
ony and sits down again heavily Edmund suddenly
cannot hold back a burst of strainedy ironical
laughter, Tyrone u hurt.)

What the devil are you laughing at?

/

EDMUND. Not at you, Papa. At hfe. It’s so damned
crazy.

TYRONE {growls). More of your morbidness^ There’s
nothing wrong with hfe. It’s we who— {He quotes) “The
fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves that
we are underhngs.” {He pauses^ then sadly ) The praise
Edwin Booth gave my Othello. I made the manager put
down his exact words in writing. I kept it in my wallet
for years I used to read it every once in a while until
finally it made me feel so bad I didn’t want to face it any
more. Where is it now, I wonder^ Somewhere in this
house. I remember I put it away carefully —

EDMUND {with a wry ironical sadness). It might be in an
old trunk in the attic, along with Mama’s wedding dress.
{Then as his father stares at him^ he adds quickly ) For Pete’s
sake, if we’re going to play cards, let’s play.

{He takes the card his father had played and leads For a
moment^ they play the gamcy like mechanical chess
players. Then Tyrone stopSy listening to a sound
upstairs^

TYRONE. She’s still moving around. God knows when
she’ll go to sleep.

EDMUND {pleads tensely). For Christ’s sake, Papa, forget it!

{He reaches out and pours a dnnk. Tyrone starts to pro-
testy then gives it up. Edmund dnnks. He puts down
the glass His expression changes. When he speaks
it is as if he were deliberately giving way to drunken-
ness and seeking to hide behind a maudlin manner.)

Yes, she moves above and beyond us, a ghost haunting the
past, and here we sit pretending to forget, but straining

133

oiir ears listemng for the shghtest sound, hearing the fog
dnp from the eaves like the uneven tick of a rundown,
crazy clock — or hke the dreary tears of a trollop spatter-
ing in a puddle of stale beer on a honky-tonk table top'
{He laughs mth maudlin appreciation.) Not so bad, that last,
eh'* Onginal, not Baudelaire. Give me credit' {Thenmth
alcoholic talkativeness.) You’ve just told me some lugh spots
in your memones. Want to hear mine'* They’re all con-
nected with the sea. Here’s one When I was on the
Squarehead square ngger, bound for Buenos Aires. Full
moon m the Trades. The old hooker dnvmg fourteen
knots I lay on the bowspnt, facing astern, with the water
foaming into spume under me, the masts with every sail
white in the moonhght, towering high above me I be-
came drunk with the beauty and singing rhythm of it, and
for a moment I lost myself — actually lost my hfe. I was
set free' I dissolved in the sea, became white sails and
flying spray, became beauty and rhythm, became moon-
light and the ship and the high dim-starred sky' I be-
longed, without past or future, withm peace and umty
and a wild joy, within somethmg greater than my own
hfe, or the hfe of Man, to Life itself To God, if you want
to put it that way. Then another time, on the Amencan
Line, when 1 was lookout on the crow’s nest m the dawn
watch. A calm sea, that time. Only a lazy groimd swell
and a slow drowsy roll of the ship. The passengers asleep
and none of the crew in sight. No sound of man. Black
smoke pouring from the funnels behind and beneath me.
Dreaming, not keeping lookout, feehng alone, and above,
and apart, watching the dawn creep like a painted dream
over Ae sky and sea which slept together. Then the mo-
ment of ecstatic freedom came. The peace, the end of the
quest, the last harbour, the joy of belonging to a fulfilment
beyond men’s lousy, pitiful, greedy fears and hopes and
dreams! And several other times in my life, when I was
swimming far out, or lying alone on a beach, I have had

134

the same experience Became the sun, the hot sand, green
seaweed anchored to a rock, swaying m the tide. Like a
saint’s vision of beatitude Like the veil of things as they
seem drawn back by an unseen hand. For a second you
see — and seemg the secret, are the secret. For a second
there is meamng' Then the hand lets the veil fall and you
are alone, lost in the fog agam, and you stumble on to-
ward nowhere, for no good reason! {He gnns rviyly ) It
was a great mistake, my bemg bom a man, I would have
been much more successful as a sea-gull or a fish. As it is,
I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who
does not really want and is not really wanted, who can
never belong, who must always be a little in love with
death!

TYRONE (stares at him — impressed). Yes, there’s the mak-
ings of a poet in you all nght. (Then protesting uneasily.)
But that’s morbid crazmess about not bemg wanted and
lovmg death.

EDMUND (sardonically). The makings of a poet. No, I’m
afraid I’m like the guy who is always panhandhng for a
smoke. He hasn’t even got the makings. He’s got only
the habit. I couldn’t touch what I tned to tell you just
now. I just stammered That’s the best I’ll ever do. I
mean, if I hve. Well, it will be faithful realism, at least.
Stammering is the native eloquence of us fog people.

(A pause. Then th^ both jump startUdly as there is a
noise from outside the house, as if someotu had
stumbled and fallen on the front steps, Ednaend
gpns.)

Well, that sounds like the absent brotha*. He must have
a peach of a bun on.

TYRONE (scowling). That loafer! He caught the last
car, bad luck to it. (He gets to fas feet.) Glet him to bed,

135

Edmund Fll go out on the porch. He has a tongue hke
an adder when he’s drunk. I’d only lose my temper.

{He goes out of the door to the side porch as the front door in
the hall bangs shut behind Jamie, Edmund watches
with amusement Jamiis wavering progress through
the front parlour. Jamie comes in He is very drunk
and woozy on his legs His eyes are glassy^ his face
bloated^ his speech blurred^ his mouth slack like his
father'^ s^ a leer on his lips.)

JAMIE {swaying and blinking in the doorway -—in a loud voice).
What ho^ What ho^

EDMUND {sharply). Nix on the loud noise*

]AMi& {blinks at him). Oh, hello, Kid. [With great senouS’-
ness ) I’m as drunk as a fiddler’s bitch.

EDMUND {dryly). Thanks for telhng me your great secret.

JAMIE {grins foolishly). Yes Unnecessary information
Number One, eh? {He bends and slaps at the knees of his
trousers.) Had serious accident. The fron’ steps tned to
trample on me. Took advantage of fog to waylay me
Ought to be a hghthouse out there. Dark in here, too
{Scowling ) What the hell is this, the morgue^ Lesh have
some hght on sibject. {He sways forward to the table^ reciting
Kipling.)

*Tord, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,

Ford o’ Kabul nver m the dark!

Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an’ they will surely
gmde you

’Cross the ford o’ Kabul nver in the dark.”

{He fumbles at the chandelier and manages to turn on the three
bulbs.) Thash more hke it. To hell with old Gaspard.
Where is the old tightwad?

EDMUND. Out on the porch.

136

JAMEE. Can’t expect us to live in the Black Hole of Cal-
cutta, {Hts eyes fix on the fiill bottle of whisky.) Say! Have
I got the d t.’s^ {He reaches out fumhlingly and grabs it.) By
God, It’s real. What’s matter with the Old Man tonight^
Must be ossified to forget he left this out. Grab oppor-
tumty by the forelock. Key to my success. {He slops a big
dnnk into a glass.)

EDMUND. You’re stinking now. That will knock you
stiff.

JAMIE. Wisdom from the mouth of babes. Can the wise
stuff. Kid. You’re still wet behind the ears. {He lowers
himself into a chair, holding the dnnk carefully aloft )

EDMUND. All right. Pass out if you want to.

JAMIE Can’t, that’s trouble. Had enough to sink a ship,
but can’t sink WcU, here’s hoping. {He dnnks.)

EDMUND. Shove over the bottle. I’ll have one, too,

JAMIE {with sudden, big-brotherly solicitude, grabbing the
bottle) . No, you don’t. Not while I’m around. Remember
doctor’s orders Maybe no one else gives a damn if you
die, but I do. My kid brother. I love your guts. Kid,
Everything else is gone. You’re all I’ve got left. {Puling
bottle closer to him.) So no booze for you, if I can help it.
{Beneath his drunken sentimentality there is a genuine smcenty.)

EDMUND {imtably). Oh, lay off it.

JAMIE {ts hurt and kis face hardens). You don’t beheve I
care, eh? Just dr u nken buU. {He shoves the bottle over.) All
nght. Go ahead and kill yourself.

EDMUND {seeing he is hurt — affectionately). Sure I know
you care, Jamie, and I’m going on the wagon. But to-
mght doesn’t count. Too many damned things have hap-
pened today. {He pours a drink.) Here’s how. {He drmks.)

137

JAMIE {sobers up momentarily and with a pitying look). I
know, Kid It’s been a lousy day for you. {Then with
sneering cynicism ) I’ll bet old Gaspard hasn’t tned to keep
you off booze. Probably give you a case to take with you
to the state farm for pauper patients. The sooner you kick
the bucket, the less expense {With contemptuous hatred)
What a bastard to have for a father* Christ, if you put bun
in a book, no one would beheve it*

EDMUND {defensively). Oh, Papa’s all right, if you try to
understand him — and keep your sense of humour.

JAMIE {cynically). He’s been putting on the old sob act
for you, eh^ He can always kid you But not me. Never
again. {Then slowly ) Although, in a way, I do feel sorry
for him about one thing But he has even that coming to
him. He’s to blame. {Hurriedly ) But to heU with that.
{He grabs the bottle and pours another dnnk, appearing very
drunk again.) That lash dnnk’s gettmg me. This one ought
to put the hghts out. Did you teU Gaspard I got it out of
Doc Hardy this sanatonum is a chanty dump'!*

EDMUND {reluctantly). Yes. I told him I wouldn’t go
there. It’s Jill settled now. He said I can go anywhere I
want. {He adds, smiling without resentment ) Within reason,
of course.

JAMIE {drunkenly imitating his father). Of course, lad
Anything within reason. {Sneering.) That means another
cheap dump. Old Gaspard, the miser in “The Bells”,
that’s a part he can play without make-up.

EDMUND {irritably). Oh, shut up, will you. I’ve heard
that Gaspard stuff a million times.

JAMIE {shrugs hts shoulders — thickly). Aw right, if you’re
shatisfied — let him get away with it. It’s your funeral —
I mean, I hope it won’t be.

138

EDMUND [changing the subject). What did you do uptown
tonight^ Go to Manue Bums^

JAMIE [very drunk, his head nodding) . Sure thing. Where
else could I find smtable feminine compamonship? And
love. Don’t forget love. What is a man without a good
woman’s love? A God-damned hollow shell.

EDMUND [chuckles tipsily, letting himself go now and be drunk).
You’re a nut.

JAMIE [quotes mth gusto from Oscar Wilde's ^‘The Harlot's
House").

“Then, turning to my love, I said,

‘The dead are danang with the dead.

The dust is whirhng with the dust,’

But she — she heard the violm,

And left my side and entered m:

Love passed mto the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,

The dancers weaned of the waltz . . .”

[He breaks off, thickly.) Not stnctly accurate. If my love
was with me, I didn’t notice it. She must have been a
ghost. [He pauses) Guess which one of Mamie’s charmers
I picked to bless me with her woman’s love. It’ll hand you
a laugh. Kid I picked Fat Violet.

EDMUND [laughs drunkenly). No, honest^ Some pick!
God, she weighs a ton. What the hell for, a j’okc'*

JAMIE. No joke. Very senous By the time I hit
Mamie’s dump I felt very sad about myself and aU the
other poor bums in the world. Ready for a weep on any
old womanly bosom You know how you get when John
Barleycorn turns on the soft music inside you. Then, soon

139

as I got in the door, Mamie began telling me all her
troubles. Beefed how rotten business was, and she was
going to give Fat Violet the gate Customers didn’t fall
for Vi. Only reason she’d kept her was she could play the
piano. Lately Vi’s gone on drunks and been too boiled to
play, and was eating her out of house and home, and
although Vi was a goodhearted dumbbell, jind she felt
sorry for her because she didn’t know how the hell she’d
make a hving, still business was business, and she couldn’t
afford to run a home for fat tarts Well, that made me
feel sorry for Fat Violet, so I squandered two bucks of
your dough to escort her upstairs. With no dishonourable
intentions whatever I hke them fat, but not that fat All
I wanted was a htde heart-to-heart talk concermng the
infimte sorrow of hfe.

EDMUND {chuckles drunkenly). Poor Vi! I’ll bet you re-
cited Kipling and Swmbume and Dowson and gave her
“I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion.”

JAMIE {grins loosely). Sure — with the Old Master, John
Barleycorn, playing soft music She stood it for a while
Then she got good and sore. Got the idea I took her up-
stairs for a joke. Gave me a grand bawhng out Said she
was better than a drunken bum who reated poetry. Then
she began to cry. So I had to say I loved her because she
was fiit, and she wanted to behevc that, and I stayed with
her to prove it, and that cheered her up, and she kissed
me when I left, and said she’d fallen hard for me, and we
both cried a httle more m the hallway, and everything
was fine, except Mamie Burns thought I’d gone bughouse.

EDMUND {quotes derisively).

“Harlots and

Hunted have pleasures of their own to give,

The vulgar herd can never understand.”

jAme, {nods hu head drunkenlj/). Egzactlyl Hell of a good

140

time, at that. You should have stuck around with me.
Kid. Mamie Bums mquired after you. Sorry to hear you
were sick. She meant it, too. {He pauses— then mth a
maudlin humour, in a ham-actor tone.) This mght has opened
my eyes to a great career in store for me, my boy! I shall
give the art of acting back to the perfomung seds, which
are its most perfect expression. By applying my natural
God-given talents in their proper sphere, I shall attain the
pmnacle of success' I’ll be the lover of the fat woman in
Bamum and Bailey’s circus!

{Edmund laughs. Jamids mood changes to arrogant
disdain )

Pah' Imagine me sunk to the fat girl in a hick town
hooker shop! Me' Who have made some of the best-
lookers on Broadway sit up and beg' {He quotes from Kip-
ling s “Sestina of the Tramp-RojaP' .)

“Speakin’ in general, I ’ave tried ’em aH,

The ’appy roads that take you o’er the world.”

{With sodden melancholy) Not so apt. Happy roads is bunk.
Weary roads is nght Get you nowhere fast That’s
where I’ve got — nowhere. Where everyone lands in the
end, even if most of the suckers won’t ainit it.

EDMUND {derisively). Can it! You’ll be crying m a
mmute.

JAMIE {starts and stares at his brother for a second with bitter
hostility — thickly). Don’t get — too damned fresh. {Then
abruptly^ But you’re right. To hell with repining! Fat
Violet’s a good kid. Glad I stayed with her. Christian
act. Cured her blues. Hell of a good time. You should
have stuck with me, Kid. Taken your mind off your
troubles. What’s the use conung home to get the Hues
over what can’t be helped. Mover — finished now — not

141

a hope * {He stops ^ his head nodding drunkenly^ his eyes closing —
then suddenly he looks up^ his face hard^ and quotes jeenngly )

I were hanged on the highest hill.

Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine*

I know whose love would follow me still ...”

{violently). Shut up*

JAMIE {in a cruely sneering tone with hatred in if). Where’s
the hophead? Gone to sleeps

{Edmund jerks as if he^d been struck There is a tense
silence. Edmund^ s face looks stricken and sick.
Then in a burst of rage he springs from his chair.)

EDMUND. You dirty bastard*

{He punches his brother in the faccy a blow that glances off
the cheekbone For a second Jamie reacts pugnaci-
ously and half rises from his chair to do battle y but
suddenly he seems to sober up to a shocked realization
of what he has said and he sinks back Imply )

JAMIE {miserably). Thanks, Kid. I certainly had that
coming. Don’t know what made me — booze talking —
You know me, Kad.

EDMUND {his anger ebbing). I know you’d never say that
unless — But God, Jamie, no matter how drunk you are.
It’s no excuse! {He pauses — miserably.) I’m sorry I hit
you. You and I never scrap ■— that bad. {He sinks back on
his chair )

JAMIE {huskily). It’s all nght. Glad you did. My dirty
tongue. Like to cut it out. {He hides his face in his hands —
dully.) I suppose it’s because I feel so damned sunk. Be-
cause this time Mama had me fooled I really believed
she had it hcked. She thinks I always believe the worst,

142

but this time I believed the best. {Hts voice flutters ) I sup-
pose I can’t forgive her — yet. It meant so much I’d
begun to hope, if she’d beaten the game, I could, too. {He
begins to sob, and the homble part of his weeping is that it
appears sober, not the maudlin tears of drunkenness )

EDMUND [blinking back tears himself). God, don’t I know
how you feel' Stop it, Jaime!

JAMIE [trying to control his sobs). I’ve known about Mama
so much longer than you. Never forget the first time I got
wise Caught her in the act with a hypo Christ, I’d never
dreamed before that any women but whores took dope'
[He pauses.) And then this stuff of you getting consump-
tion. It’s got me hcked. We’ve been more than brothers.
You’re the only pal I’ve ever had. I love your guts. I’d
do anythmg for you.

EDMUND [reaches out and pats his arm). I know that,
Janue.

JAMIE [his crying over — drops his hands from his face — with
a strange bitterness). Yet I’ll bet you’ve heard Mama and
old Gaspard spill so much bunk about my hoping for the
worst, you suspect right now I’m thinking to myself that
Papa is old and can’t last much longer, and if you were to
die. Mama and I would get all he’s got, and so I’m prob-
ably hoping —

’Esmsjrm [indignantly). Shut up, you damned fixil! What
the hell put that in your nut? [He stares at his brother accus-
ingly.) Yes, that’s what I’d like to know. What put that
m your mind'*

JAMIE [confusedly — appearing drunk again). Don’t be a
dumbbell' What I said' Always suspected of hoping for
the worst. I’ve got so I can’t help — [Then drunkenly re-
sentjul.) What are you trying to do, accuse me'* Don’t
play the wise guy with me' I’ve learned more of life than

143

you’ll ever know' Just because you’ve read a lot of high-
brow junk, don’t think you can fool me' You’re only an
overgrown kid' Mama’s baby and Papa’s pet' The family
White Hope' You’ve been getting a swelled head lately.
About nothing' About a few poems in a hick town news-
paper' Hell, I used to wnte better stuff for the Lit
magazine in college' You better wake up ' You’re setting
no nvers on fire' You let hick town boobs flatter you with
bunk about your future —

{Abruptly his tone changes to disgusted contrition. Ed-
mund has looked away from him, trying to ignore
this tirade.)

HeU, Kid, forget it That goes for Sweeny. You know I
don’t mean it No one is prouder you’ve started to make
good. {Drunkenly assertive ) Why shouldn’t I be proud'*
Hell, it’s purely selfish. You reflect credit on me. I’ve
had more to do with bnngmg you up than anyone. I
wised you up about women, so you’d never be a fall guy,
or make any mistakes you didn’t want to make' And who
steered you on to reading poetry first'* Swinburne, for
example? I did' And because I once wanted to write, I
planted it in your mind that someday you’d write! Hell,
you’re more than my brother. I made you' You’re my
Frankenstem!

{He has risen to a note of drunken arrogance. Edmund is
gnnmng with amusement now.)

EDMXJND All nght, I’m your Frankenstein. So let’s
have a dnnk. {He laughs.) You crazy nut'

JAMIE {thickly). I’ll have a drink. Not you. Got to take
care of you. {He reaches out mth a foolish gnn of doting affec-
tion and grabs his brother's hand.) Don’t be scared of this
sanatonum business. Hell, you can beat that standing
on your head. Six months and you’ll be in the pink. Prob-

*44

ably haven’t got consumption at all. Doctors lot of fakers.
Told me years ago to cut out booze or I’d soon be dead —
and here I am. They’re all con men. Anything to grab
your dough. I’ll bet this state farm stuff is pohtical graft
game. Doctors get a cut for every patient they send.

EDMUND {disgustedly amused). You’re the hmit! At the
Last Judgment, you’ll be around teUmg everyone it’s m
the bag.

JAMIE And I’ll be nght Shp a piece of change to the
Judge and be saved, but if you’re broke you can go to
heU'

{He gnus at this blasphemy and Edmund has to laugh.
Jamu goes on.)

“Therefore put money in thy purse ” That’s the only
dope. {Mockingly.) The secret of my success! Look, what
It’s got me!

{He lets Edmund’s hand go to pour a big dnnk, and gulps
it down. He stares at his brother with bleary affec-
tion — takes his hand again and begins to talk
thickly but with a strange, convincing svnceniy )

Listen, Kid, you’U be gomg away. May not get another
chance to talk. Or might not be drunk enough to tell you
truth. So got to tell you now. Something I ought to have
told you long ago — for your own good.

{He pauses — struggling with himself. Edmund stares,
impressed and uneasy. Jamie blurts outl)

Not drunken bull, but “in vino ventas” stuff. You better
tzike it senously. Want to warn you — against me. Mama
and Papa are nght. I’ve been rotten bad influence. And
worst of It IS, I id It on purpose.

EDMUND {uneasily). Shut up' I don’t want to hear —

K 145

JAMIE. Nix, Kid' You Lsten! Did it on purpose to
make a bum of you. Or part of me did A big part. That
part that’s been dead so long That hates hfe. My putting
you wise so you’d learn from my mistakes. Beheved that
myself at times, but it’s a fake. Made my mistakes look
good. Made getting drunk romantic. Made whores fas-
cmating vampires instead of poor, stupid, diseased slobs
they really are. Made fun of work as sucker’s game
Never wanted you succeed and make me look even worse
by comparison. Wanted you to fail. Always jealous of
you Mama’s baby. Papa’s pet' {He stares at Edmund mth
increasing enmity.) And it was your being bom that started
Mama on dope. I know that’s not your fault, but all the
same, God damn you, I can’t help hating your guts —1

{cdrnustjhghienedly). Jzxax&\ Cut it out! You’re

crazy!

JAMIE. But don’t get wrong idea, Kid. I love you more
than I hate you My saying what I’m telhng you now
proves It. I run the risk you’ll hate me — and you’re all
I’ve got left. But I didn’t mean to tell you that last stuff —
go that fcir back. Don’t know what made me. What I
wanted to say is, I’d hke to see you become the greatest
success in the world. But you’d better be on your guard.
Because I’ll do my damnedest to make you fad Can’t
help it. I hate myself. Got to take revenge. On everyone
else. Espeaally you. Oscar Wdde’s “Readmg Gaol” has
the dope twisted. The man was dead, and so he had to
kill the thing he loved. That’s what it ought to be. The
dead part of me hopes you won’t get well. Maybe he’s
even glad the game has got Mama again! He wants com-
pany, he doesn’t want to be the only corpse around the
house! {He gives a hard, tortured laugh.)

EDMUND. Jesus, Jamie! You really have gone crazy!

JAMIE. Think it over and you’ll see I’m nght. Think it

146

over when you’re away from me m the sanatorium. Make
up your mind you’ve got to tie a can to me — get me out of
your hfe — think of me as dead — tell people, "I had a
brother, but he’s dead ” And when you come back, look
out for me I’ll be waiting to welcome you with that “my
old pal” stuff, and give you the glad hand, and at the first
good chance I get stab you in the back.

EDMUND Shut up' I’ll be God-damned if I’ll listen to
you any more — !

jAi/SE. {as if he hadn't heard). Only don’t forget me. Re-
member I warned you — for your sake. Give me credit.
Greater love hath no man than this, that he saveth his
brother from himself (Fe^ drunkenly, his head bobbing)
That’s all Feel better now. Gone to confession. Know
you absolve me, don’t you. Kid’* You imderstand. You’re
a damned fine kid. Ought to be. I made you. So go and
get well. Don’t die on me. You’re all I’ve got left. God
bless you, K O.

{He falls into a drunken dozfi, not completely asleep. Ed-
mund bunes his face in his hands miserably. Tyrone
comes in quietly through the screen door from the
porch, his dressing gown wet with fog, the collar
turned up around his throat. Hu face u stem and
disgust^ but at the same time pitying. Edmund does
not notice hu entrance )

TYRONE {in a low voice). Thank God he’s asleep.

{Edmund looks up with a start.)

I thought he’d never stop talkmg. {He turns down the collar
of his dressing gown.) We’d better let him stay where he is
and sleep it off.

{Edmund remains silent. Tyrone regards hm — dtkn
goes on.)

147

I heard the last part of his talk It’s what I’ve warned you
I hope you’ll heed the warning, now it conies from his own
mouth.

{Edmund gives no sign of having heard Tjrone adds
pityingly )

But don’t take it too much to heart, lad. He loves to
exaggerate the worst of himself when he’s drunk. He’s
devoted to you. It’s the one good thing left in him. {He
looks down on Jamie with a bitter sadness ) A sweet spectacle
for me' My first-born, who I hoped would bear my name
m honour and digmty, who showed such brilhant promise!

EDMUND {miserably). Keep qmet, can’t you, Papa^

TYRONE {pours a dnnk). A waste! A wreck, a drunken
hulk, done with and finished!

{He dnnks. Jamie has become restless, sensing his father's
presence, struggling up from his stupor Now he gets
his eyes open to blink up at Tyrone. The latter moves
back a step defensively, his face growing hard )

JAMIE {suddenly points a finger at him and rentes with dramatic
emphasis).

“Clsirence is come, false, fleetmg, pequred Clarence,
That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury.

Seize on him, Funes, take him into torment.”

{Then resentfully 1) What the hell are you staring at? {He
recites sardonically from Rossetti.)

“Look in my face. My name is Might-Have-Been;

I am also called No More, Too Late, Farewell.”

TYRONE. I’m well aware of that, and Gkid knows I don’t
want to look at it.

EDMUND. Papa! Quit it!

148

iAMiE.{dmsivelj!). Got a great idea for you. Papa. Put on
revival of The Bells this season. Great part in it you can
play without make-up. Old Gaspard, the miser!

( Tyrone turns away, trying to control fas temper )

EDMUND Shut up, Jamie!

JAMIE (jeenng^'j. I claim Edwin Booth never saw the
day when he could give as good a performance as a trained
seal. Seals are intelhgent and honest They don’t put up
any bluffs about the Art of Acting They admit they’re
just hams earning their daily fish

TSTRONE {stungi turns on him in a rage) You loafer!

EDMUND Papal Do you want to start a row that will
bung Mama down^ Jamie, go back to sleep! You’ve shot
off your mouth too much already.

{Tyrone turns away )

JAMIE {thicky). All nght. Kid Not looking for argu-
ment. Too danmed sleepy.

{He closes his eyes, hu head nodding. Tyrone comes to the
table and sits down, turning fas chair so he won't
look at Jamie At once he becomes sleepy, too )

TYRONE {heamly) . I wish to God she’d go to bed so that
I could, too. {Drowsily.) I’m dog tired. I can’t stay up
all night like I used to. Getting old — old and finished.
{With a bone-cracking yawn.) Can’t keep my eyes open. I
think I’ll catch a few winks. Why don’t you do the same,
Edmund^ It’ll pass the time until she —

{His voice treads off Hu ^es close, his clan sags, and he
begiru to breathe heamly tkrough fas mouth. Edmund
sits tensely. He hears something and jerks nervously

149

forward tn hu chair ^ staring through the front par-
lour into the halL He jumps up with a hunted^ dis-
tracted expression It seems for a second he is going
to hide in the back parlour. Then he sits down again
and waitSy his eyes averted^ his hands gripping the
arms of his chair Suddenly all five bulbs of the
chandelier in the front parlour are turned on from a
wall switch^ and a moment later someone starts pick-
ing the piano in there — the opening of one of
Chopin^ s simpler waltzes^ done with a forgetful^ stiff-
fingered groping^ as if an awkward schoolgirl were
practising it for the first time Tyrone starts to wide-
awakeness and sober dread^ and Jamie^s head jerks
back and his eyes open. For a moment they listen
frozenly. The playing stops as abruptly as it began^
and Mary appears in the doorway She wears a sky-
blue dressing gown over her nightdress y dainty slippers
with pompons on her bare feet Her face is paler
than ever. Her eyes look enormous. They glisten
like polished black jewels The uncanny thing is that
her face now appears so youthful. Experience seems
ironed out of it. It is a marble mask of girlish inno-
cencey the mouth caught in a sly smile Her white
hair IS braided in two pigtails which hang over her
breast. Over one army earned neglectfully y trailing on
the floor y as if she had forgotten she held ity is an old-
fashioned white satin wedding gowny tnmmed with
duchesse lace. She hesitates in the doorway y glancing
round the roomy her forehead puckered puzzledlyy like
someone who has come to a room to get something but
has become absent-minded on the way and forgotten
what it was They stare at her. She seems aware of
them merely as she is aware of other objects in the
roomy the furniture y the windows y familiar things she
accepts automatically as naturally belonging there
but which she is too preoccupied to notice )

150

JAMIE {breaks the cracking silence — bitterly^ self^defensively
sardonic). The Mad Scene. Enter Ophelia!

{His father and brother both turn on him fiercely. Edmund
IS quicker. He slaps Jamie across the mouth mih the
back of his hand )

TYRONE {his voice trembling with suppressed fury). Good
boy, Edmund. The dirty blackguard! His own mother!

JAMIE {mumbles guiltily^ without resentment). All right, Kid.
Had It coming. But I told you how much Fd hoped— {He
puts his hands over his face and begins to sob.)

TYRONE. I’ll kick you out in the gutter tomorrow, so
help me God. {But Jamiis sobbing breaks hzs anger, and he
turns and shakes his shoulder, pleading.) Jamie, for the love of
God, stop it*

{Then Mary speaks, and they freeze into silence again,
staring at her. She has paid no attention whatever to
the incident. It ts simply a part of the familiar atmo*
sphere of the room, a background which does not touch
her preoccupation; and she speaks aloud to herself, not
to them.)

MARY. I play so badly now. I’m all out of practice.
Sister Theresa will give me a dreadful scolding. She’ll tell
me It isn’t fair to my father when he spends so much money
for extra lessons. She’s quite right, it isn’t fair, when he’s
so good and generous, and so proud of me. I’ll practise
every day from now on. But something horrible has hap-
pened to my hands. The fingers have gotten so stiff— {She
lifts her hands to examine them with afiightened puzzlement.)
The knuckles are all swollen. They’re so ugly. I’ll have
to go to the Infirmary and show Sister Martha. {Wilk a
sweet smile of affectionate trust.) She’s old and a little cranky,
but I love her just the same, and she has things^ in her
medicme chest that’ll cure anything. She’ll give me

something to rub on my hands, and tell me to pray to the
Blessed Virgin, and they’ll be well again in no time. {She
forgets her hands and comes into the room^ the wedding gown trails
mg on the floor She glances around vaguely^ her forehead puckered
again ) Let me see. What did I come here to find^ It’s
ternble, how absent-minded Tve become. I’m always
dreaming and forgetting

TYRONE {in a stifled voice). What’s that she’s carrying,
Edmund^

EDMUND {dully). Her wedding gown, I suppose.

TYRONE. Christ* {He gets to his feet and stands directly in
her path — in anguish.) Mary* Isn’t it bad enough—^
{Controlling himself — gently persuasive) Here, let me take
It, dear. You’ll only step on it and tear it and get it dirty
dragging it on the floor. Then you’d be sorry afterwards.

{She lets him take ity regarding him from somewhere far
away within herself without recognition^ without
either affection or animosity.)

MARY {with the shy politeness of a well-bred young girl toward
an elderly gentleman who relieves her of a bundle). Thank you
You are very kind. {She regards the wedding gown with a
puzzled interest) It’s a wedding gown. It’s very lovely, isn’t
it^ {A shadow crosses her face and she looks vaguely uneasy ) I
remember now. I found it in the attic hidden in a trunk.
But I don’t know what I wanted it for. I’m going to be a
nun — that is, if I can only find — {She looks around the
room^ her forehead puckered again ) What is it I’m looking
for? I know it’s something I lost. {She moves back from
Tyrone^ aware of him now only as some obstacle in her path.)

TYRONE {in hopeless appeal). Mary!

{But It carmot penetrate her preoccupation. She doesn^t
seem to hear him. He gives up helplessly ^ shrinking
into himself even his defensive drurdtenruess taken

152

from him^ leaving him sick and sober. He sinks baek
on his chair, holding the wedding gown in his arms
with an unconscious clumsy, protective gentleness,)

JAMIE {drops his hand from his face, his eyes on the table top.
He has suddenly sobered up, too — dully) It’s no good, Papa.
{He recites from Swinbum/s Leave-taking"' and does it well,
simply but with a bitter sadness,)

‘Tet us nse up and part; she will not know.

Let us go seaward as the great winds go.

Full of blown sand and foam, what help is here^
There is no help, for all these things are so,

And all the world is bitter as a tear

And how these things are, though ye strove to show.

She would not know.*’

MARY {looking around her). Something I miss terribly. It
can’t be altogether lost. {She starts to move around behind
Jamies chair )

JAMIE {turns to look up into her face — and cannot help appeal-
ing pleadingly in his turn). Mama! {She does not seem to hear.
He looks away hopelessly,) Hell* vhiat’s the use? It’s no
good. {He reatesfrom ''A Leave-taking" again with increased
bitterness,)

‘‘Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.

Let us go hence together without fear;

Keep silence now, for smgmg-time is over.

And over all old things and all things dear.

She loves not you nor me as all we love her.

Yea, though we sang as angels m her ear,

She would not hear.”

MARY {looking around her). Something I need terribly.
I remember when I had it I was never lonely nor a&aid. I
can’t have lost it for ever. I would die if I thought that.
Because then there would be no hope. {She moves like a

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sleepwalker y around the back of Jamie^s chair ^ then forward toward
left fronts passing behind Edmund.)

EDMUND {turns impulsively and grabs her arm. As he pleads he
has the quality of a bewilderedly hurt little boy) Mama* It
isn’t a summer cold! Fve got consumption*

MARY {for a second he seems to have broken through to her. She
trembles and her expression becomes terrified She calls distractedly^
as if giving a command to h&rself) . No * {And instantly she is far
away again. She murmurs gently but impersonally ) You must
not try to touch me You must not try to hold me. It isn’t
nght, when I am hoping to be a nun.

{He lets his hand drop from her arm. She moves left to the
front end of the sofa beneath the windows and sits
down^ facing fronts her hands folded in her lap^ in a
demure schoolgirlish pose.)

JAMIE {gives Edmund a strange look of mingled pity and jealous
gloating). You damned fool. It’s no good. {He recites again
from the Swinburne poem.)

us go hence, go hence; she will not see.

Sing all once more together; surely she,

She too, remembering days and words that were,

Will turn a htde toward us, sighing, but we,

We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been
there.

Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me.

She would not see.’^

TYRONE {t^ng to shake off his hopeless stupor) Oh, we’re
fools to pay any attention. It’s the damned poison But
I’ve never known her to drown herself in it as deep as this.
{Gruffly.) Pass me that bottle, Jamie. And stop reciting
that damned morbid poetry. I won’t have it in my house*

{Jamie pushes the bottle toward him. He pours a dnnk
mthout disarranging the wedding gown he holds

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carefully over his other arm and on his lapy and
shoves the bottle back Jaime pours las and passes
the bottle to Edmund, who, in turn, pours one.
Tyrone lifts his glass and his sons follow suit mech-
anically, but before they can dnnk Maiy speaks and
they slowly lower their dnnks to the table, forgetting
them )

MARY {stanng dreamily before her. Her face looks extra-
ordinarily youthful and innocent The shyly eager, trusting smile is
on her lips as she talks aloud to herself). I had a talk ■with
Mother Elizabeth. She is so sweet and good. A saint on
earth. I love her dearly. It may be sinful of me but I love
her better than my own modier. Because she always
understands, even before you say a word. Her kind blue
eyes look nght into your heart. You can’t keep any
secrets from her. You couldn’t deceive her, even if you
were mean enough to want to. {She gives a little rebellious
toss of her head — with girlish pique ) All the same, I don’t
think she was so understanding this time. I told her I
wanted to be a nun I explained how sure I was of my
vocation, that I had prayed to the Blessed Virgin to make
me sure, and to find me worthy. I told Mother I had had a
true -vision when I was praymg in the shrine of Our Lady
of Lourdes, on the htde island in the lake. I said I knew,
as surely as I knew I was kneeling there, that the Blessed
Virgin had smiled and blessed me -with her consent. But
Mother Elizabeth told me I must be more sure th^ that,
even, that I must prove it wasn’t simply my imagination
She said, if I was so sure, then I wouldn’t mind putog
m-yself to a test by gomg home after I graduated and li-ving
as other girls hved, going out to parties and danc^ and
enjoying m-yself, and then if after a year or two I still felt
sure, I could come back to see her and we would talk it
over again. {She tosses her head—indignanUy.) I never
dreamed Holy Mother would give me such, advice! I was

155

really shocked. I said, of course, I would do anything she
suggested, but I knew it was simply a waste of time. After
I left her, I felt all mixed up, so I went to the shnne and
prayed to the Blessed Virgin and found peace again be-
cause I knew she heard my prayer and would always love
me and see no harm ever came to me so long as I never
lost my faith m her {She pauses and a look of growing un--
easiness comes over her face. She passes a hand over her forehead
as if brushing cobwebs from her brain — vaguely ) That was
m the winter of semor year. Then in the spring some-
thing happened to me Yes, I remember. I fell in love
with James Tyrone and was so happy for a time.

{She stares before her in a sad dream. Tyrone stirs in his
chair. Edmund and Jamie remain motionless.)

Curtain

Too House
December 20, 1940